Henry Akuete: My Poems and some

All she wanted was to taste love looking into the wide grey heavens she made rain with her warm tears wetting the sour earth from within but nothing grew from it all only for a lonely seed of sorrow sprouting from the barren earth it bore a bitter fruit poison to taste this she got when love she sought she cried thunder loud and long she spat out hail and whirlwinds it quaked when she fell to the ground but she was still alone, all alone nobody heard her song, nobody came all she had was the bitter black fruit cold and lifeless in her pale hands hungry and starving for nought but love she closed her eyes and took a long bite in that moment her heart was frozen and broken to a thousand red pieces this was not suicide, no it wasn't make no mistake, it was murder

Call me, draw me, hold me Make me kneel and bend In the wind and rain whip me Tear my skin away in pain As you forge me with the cane Drain me of joy and light In my own sorrow drown me Call my name in the dark And let the fright chain me I'm a slave to your long will Take my name away from me Let me know only your cold whistle Nail me to an inverted cross For agony is all you give me Drag me through the rough streets Let me know the beauty of shame As they spit on me and mock me While dogs lick my open wounds feed me my own nauseous waste Give me my piss for wine i drink I am no man before your sight Burn me when I'm still alive When to a stake you tie me Let me know no sleep in the night Leave me to the mercy of wolves And the howling hoots of grey owls As i lie on your cold threshold Give me pain and tears all day But all i ask of you till death Dont leave me all alone

Not all poetry is sweet, Not every line is beautiful Life is not a comedy,This poem is not beautiful It is dark and otherworldly, Drawn from dark energy With lines written in black ink Ink made from dark matter and grey ether Im not a living poet, im a dead poet For my poetry is not for the living The living are deaf and blind Call me a dead poet because i die when i write I bleed my very soul onto this papyrus So by the time im done my hand falls Call me accursed because all true poets are cursed Cursed to die and rise again to write To die when we write and write when we die Our souls eternally trapped in limbo Only to be freed by the very truth that haunts us So we write to be free, to tell truth that makes us hated My skin is covered with ancient rune tattoos Every poem i write burned unto my own flesh By seven arch angels with my own blood and tears With my pen i stab my chest everyday Tearing my heart out for immolation on the alter of truth This is not the

Its in the flow of the ether in the noise and the crowd where flows truths unknown and lies become upended still in the ether the past is present the present comes to the past what was in the ebbs and waves the tide will bring it to bear in the ether all is still possible so do not say it cannot be make no mistake about reality the unreal is what you once knew in the ether life is a river the river is the ether you see flowing through the senses yet without notice to most tap ye into the silent ether fetch from the ancient fountain fill your cup with this here truth knowledge to quench your thirst