Misrepresented

I have no name

It only puts me under you
I have no measure
Because you have none under you too.
I have no weakness
Unless compared to you
What makes me a woman if I am better than you ?

I have no name
It reminds me of you
I have no flaws
Unless compared to you

She fights like a man                                                                               

  She thinks like a man!

When will I fight like me?
 And what does it mean to be as strong as you?
                                                                                 

Are there no similes that represents me without you  ?
       
Misrepresented,
Maybe that should be my name .

What makes me a woman if I'm better than you ?

I owe you nothing

Did you think I'll stumble and fall?

Or lose my mind when you left me behind?
Did you think I'll cry when you kicked me outside?
I made it. What do you think now?

When I was down, did you think I will never be up ?
When you dragged my name through mad, did you forget you had one?
When the world was cold, were you the flames that warms bodies?
Or a voice that mocks tragedy ?

I made it.

what do you think now?

Have your words been sweet to me?

Has your smile been real to me?

So why are you mad when I owe you nothing?

Deadlines

 

Deadlines. They are definitely killers. Imagine the number of writers who lose their heads to them? Or the fury in the eyes of a producer when you fail to meet them? It’s either your show is cancelled or you are glued with a sign at your back which cautions everybody from offering you any gig.

In 2016, the opportunity I had been waiting for all my life was presented before me. A famous producer gave me a contract. His upcoming television series demanded so much from him that he had no choice than to employ another writer.
His show, which was supposed to be an inspiration piece, intertwined with comedy, a mystery or anything loved by his audience was not really the problem. My only concern was the fact that he had never done script banging before. You know what I mean when I say script banging. It’s when a group of writers tear apart your innocent story from overanalyzing it to the point that you finally call it their story instead of yours.

Before I began writing for him, I realized he had already written six episodes and I wondered why.  Probably he did that before finding a writer like me.  Or probably he didn’t believe I was up to the task. I assumed.

“I want you to synthesize my stories with six episodes of yours.” he said, offering an outline of some scenes he expected to see in my draft. “I don’t know how you are going to do it but I can promise you this.If you do it and I’m impressed, you will be employed full time. Get it done in a month and you will probably be working for someone else. Your faith is your hands".

The first idea I had in mind to beat his deadline was one I had while watching a video from Youtube.  “A writer is a reader and a reader is a writer”. That was what the lecturer in the video claimed. “You can’t be one and not be the other." He added.

 For me, the meaning I expatiated from this in context of the genre of writing I had specialized was the value of research to any writer.  What the producer didn’t know was I knew a lot about his themes from reading about them, from talking to people, from observing images like them and from analyzing the environment in which I lived before I had accepted the difficult journey of springing ideas on paper for him.

The second strategy I had in mind was a tip I received from my creative writing professor while on campus.  Showing me a popular award winning non-fiction book, prof said to me, “You don’t need all the facts in the world to create fiction. A writer simply is a projector of truth or something like it. Though believable, this book is an example of something like it."
It was prof who also taught me to choose the audience over a producer if I had to choose between the two. "They have the power to cancel any show, " he advised.
After two weeks of writing and rewriting , I delivered my scripts immediately to the producer.
 “ How did you do it ? “ he said with a look of excitement after reading them. I smiled.
 Deadlines, they maybe killers.  But they are definitely not going to kill me.

Music that is mine

 

  At last, something that rings out the sorrow from my old soul

A Beethoven of nature 

A healing hymn that straightens my spine till I exhale my guilt                                  

A stroke that paralyzes my mind from reality’s truth
A builder of a universe of bliss
 A star glistening shadows of yesterday into the future
like the tantrum of an earthquake after years  of slumber  

A harmony of angelic voices raining the notes of victory from one ear to another
 A birth of rhyme and unison of perfect melody
Unite all my senses so I can comprehend how you beat diseases with beats 

 Or that magical principle you use to empower with vowels    
 Who can define you when you are synthesized by a deity?
  Be blues, be highlife.
Be any combination of notes and time

 But in all your being just don’t forget to be mine.

Footprints

Footprints, do you have any?

And who do you think is following them?
Far away I saw his but I never thought I’ll be him
But from the looks of things who else am I other than him, father?
Will my children make the right turn if it’s time?
Or will they inherent my pride and forget their kind?
What don’t they know that I should have known?
What do I know that they shouldn’t know?
Are good intentions not enough to bestow kindness?
Or is kindness just kindness?
I need some footprints
Where can I go without them?
What can I teach without them?
Footprints, tell me. Whose do you have?

Love spell broken

 

Moon, appear not this night

First let me find him a place to rest
A song to keep his memory
An embrace that will last eternally
Or at least a perspective that will strengthen me
For he is not coming back tomorrow
Neither will he come the day after
Love spell is broken! Love spell is broken.
He should have told me where he was going.
This is just a waste of emotions
You tease me then you disappear
You promise then you disappoint
How am I going to forget you if marriage is still wonderful?
How will I forget you when love is still debatable?
When they ask where forever is, what will I say to them?
Love spell is broken?
Or the joy that clothed me is finally stolen?
Tell me!
Who is the same when they are broken?
Or do you not hear my heart crying?
Come back to me. Come back to me.

love spell can't broken.
But this is.
Whever you are, be happy.

What an awkard way to celebrate victory.

Lost memories

When you were born, I saw you.

You played with fire and you feared no danger
You believed in dreams and your curiosity could not be quenched
Your smile was infectious and everyone loved your name.
How is it you know your limits before you try anything?
How is it you know the future before it begins?
Is a condition forged by man a reality declared by God?
Or can the truth be paralysed by lies over and over again?
If there is something I’m missing it must be you, my memories.
For in you I found the identity that cripples me and in you the words that uplift me.
Why don’t you take me to a time where there was no doubt?
Why don’t you remind me of what I did in the past?
For you are not just my memories
You are a compass of who I am.

Memories, I’m not losing you again.