Skip to main content

MY SINCERE CRY



By Ola Vincent Omotade
(Romantic storyteller)

(my last conversation)

Ronke I love you so deeply, why have you determined to poisoning my heart with nothing  but an heartbreak ?

(Her terrifying reply)

I hate you,  I never loved you in the first place,  I was just managing you, you foolish riff Raff.

 (My tears  into writing

With tears jugging down my cheek,I said
Oh I Love to always see you whisper to my ear,
I mean all day a Christmas party.
I love covered up with umbrella of love,
Just exactly like a guardian angel
I love to following,protecting and loving
Always getting your attention.
Your eyes tell me to believe you,
Even when it looks uncertain.
Am sure you're the solution and I will wait to the end.



I know a day will come your smile be painted pink and sea green
when you're fulfilled in my lovely hood
you will  then be  perceived as  ace fragrances of  life you lived on love and peace
Happiness should be what you hope for...

But she walked away.. and I cried sincerely for the first time in my prodigy life.

(My tears drying  the sun)

I was lost in the world where everything seems meaningless to me.
though  I grew up without experiencing communal acceptance and love.
My courage was broken
I became so helplessly,
Almost watching the love of my life disappear into thin air.
The thought of ronke held me captive at night, was thinking all through on how to protect our unapproved love with all my life.





So I do not believe Love exist....

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

WHY DO TEARS FOREVER FLOW?

By Ola Vincent Omotade As I lay on my bed this morning, with sunlight streaming through the window, a gentle breeze blew the flimsy white curtain and I saw the sky turn blue.. OH! its a new day I said. Just as I took a step to go get my pink hard smoker's brush and a Dabur-herbal toothpaste to spray on my brush, I heard someone crying in terribleness. I was weak in my spirit and all I did was to rest on my cushion, threw the brush on my carved mahogany bench and these were words that interfered with my heart. I realized coming to this earth, newly birth nothing in my hand I bring. simply naked to the earth I come, looking for dress in tearsa Oh for us We came hale and hearty, But yet tears trooped out from our eyes, the little helpless baby. Looking for ways to support living, we sow in tears but at times reap in joy, not always every time though. Going through the nooks and crannies of pains in craft works, handiworks and education (disciplined with tear...

SALEWA

By Jonathan Oladeji I don’t know how many people have met Salewa before, even if it is not the Salewa I am talking about. What can you say is common about every Salewa? It’s usually their room mates that can testify better. I met Salewa in my 200 level and she told me her name was Sally. I stared at her for hours before managing to pick a seat behind her in the then AUD 2 on the Great Ife campus. Salewa is the typical tall, slim, dark and beautiful (TSDB) girl. I approached with all caution because I wanted to make a good impression. Even though I am not much of a fashionista, I could see her wrist bracelet, earrings and neck-piece were a complete set out of an A-Class boutique. Salewa was not the bend-down select kind of girl. I wanted to break out of that circle too by all means. We talked awkwardly at first, then kicked off with a bit of more fashion related gist as I noticed that was all she wanted to talk about. I actually wanted to talk about drawing boards and painting c...

ÌGBÀ ÈWE (CHILDHOOD DAYS)

By Teslim Opemipo Let our mothers come like harmattan haze and swear by the sacrality of ògún if the roof lying above their fathers' house has never been stoned by a boy in love to walk them out for an evening talk. Let our fathers come like a windy rain and swear by the simplicity of òsun if the path that leads to the village stream has never danced to serenades sang by their soles in chase of maidens with braids so long. Let the elders come like a mid-year harvest and swear by the tranquility of the moon if they've not once tasted the bliss of childhood fermented with the morals of moonlight tales. In our village, childhood is made of water; kinsmen, remember, water is brewed with life and life is the laughter moulded on our lips when we gambol from rivers to trees and to fields painted in the colours of hopping grasses. Brethren, if you hear an elder saying: growing up kills laughter and joy, do not giggle for they once like us tasted the bliss o...