Foreword
This poem is nothing like the one above,
Dear Reader,
I write for you, and me.
Together we share.
In light and in darkness. And the rest.
I will be selfish a moment in that Western sense,
Laying all out my woes to see,
Bless you for reading and let us heal pains through words.
 
A palette of pain I shall lay down, its tale is writ.
As I wake today, crumpled like paper,
do not try to iron me out.
My creases are dark, damp, stale,
something is sour too.
Oh, it is me. What a shame I say to myself.
 
Do not try to ease me with your positivity,
That toxic type, but you mean well. I am guilty too.
We all want to rescue.
You. And you. You, and you. And me.
 
Mild, Severe, Intermittent.
What is your score, RAW I answer,
One – to – ten. Oh, I will not say TEN.
Fear of Judgement, no, no, no,
I learnt that. I learnt my lesson fast.
How may I express myself in this agony? A seven will do.
Do you want pain relief. Oh yes, I do.
 
Deformed, malleable, throbbing, sharpened blades,
You loud thing.
Yet I cannot localise you. You little thug n thief of JOY.
I cancelled two concerts because of you and much more.
OH, much, much, much, MORE. That is a poem on its own account.
 
Wait, test results are in. Cerebral, sterile, stark.
Most of all, potent!
Paper, you are though in reality.
The INK is simply too black.
And RED. Today, tomorrow. the next.
 
Each phrase careful, only to be more careful,
each number with its specific meaning and power,
power over every aspect of my day.
None of it fits though - does it nurse? She has compassion at least.
YOU NEED as Specialist in an area they do not exist. Oh Dear. I speak.
I want to scream aloud.
The DOC shows compassion my way, usually, on their good days.
Which of course helps this craze settle to less of a craze.
Ahhh though, here we go again. OHHHH. OHHHH. And OHHHH.
This should be a song. The song of Meg with a sore leg. The song of Meg with her bad head. The song of Meg with a sore toe, The song of Meg with all but woe.
 
Parameters, definitions, distinctions, guidelines, rules. They keep popping up.
This millimetre, this fat sparing, this blockage, this cell, this adhesion. This bile.
This blood, this heme iron, this transfusion, this infusion, this suture, this calcium score, this d-dimer is too high.
 
This, this, that. this sodium, this potassium, this gas, this acid base, this pulmonary nodule, this heartbeat, this ECG, this ECHO, this lack of oxygen, this gene. OH, and that gene too.
 
This b12, this lack of paper and ink, this DARK INK, and feelings, and too many feelings, and oh this history, this mental illness - is it real or not? Should we see? Who is she? What is her background, is she of wealth, is she poor, is she smart or a nark? Who is her family? Who is she berating us to on her phone? Let us see please. Who is this fine mess? It is ok, I am just me, just do not tick me off today because I can be scathing. Just like you. But I am in PAIN, so watch it. And I am at SEVEN.
 
And there is more, this overload, this foul bowel.
This stuck food, this piece of me,
this gastric issue, this reflux, this migraine, this tissue,
this medicine with its side effects, or advantageous effects,
this blood pressure, is up, is down, is around,
this oxygen level, this low temperature. This high one. This in between state.
This sickness, this malady, this illness, this condition, this fake, this real, this ordeal.
This infection, this antibiotic, this fungal killer, this wart medicine, this anti-acid, this cutterage, this biopsy, this burning of skin, this mole, this growth, this enema, this cream, this drawer full of creams. The pharmacy in my bathroom looks strange.
These asthma meds, these Band-Aids, these antiseptics, these antihistamines, these Panadol, these Maxalon, this ibuprofen, these vitamins, these burn creams. These skin barrier lotions, this chemo cream, this laxative, these fibre drinks, these liver tabs, these migraine patches, this heel balm and b12 injection ampoules. These pads, these Movicol sachets, these sedatives – this POUTPOURRI!
This pain medicine, this CBD oil, this opioid like stuff, or that, this nutritional deficiency, this dark place, these necessary tests - on no end roads. On paper trails. You INK take away my holidays. You INK are both saviour and persecutor. You INK are the western world with its joys and sorrows. You bring me thankfulness and you bring me sorrow.
 
So dear INK I am no apologist today for my nasty letters at times, my poems, my questioning my anger, my disappointment, my depression, my sadness, my relief, my grief. It felt good to speak up, and I warn you and I warn you again. Do not mess with this agony bag. Accept and help her. This, that, that, and this. Oh, and this and there is more.
 
So how do we heal, with ink all around - with black INK?
She is not one problem, she is COMPLEX. She is a true Zebra black n white striped. And paper sheets and paper skin, resting on her paper bed. Her wayward cells, and bones, blood, and tissues speak as they do.
 
Mystery Ink. You are a shape shifter - you are.
But do not you dare shift the blame to me, dear INK,
For this paper thin, skin. Is what it is, and it is NOT yours.
 
And dearest symptoms why must you stay and then hide. And then scream loud.
I am sensitive to noise. You want to be heard and I hear you. I hate you and I love you, but I still wish you would find a place of your own. Where you really belong.
 
Prying eyes, blind eyes, action plans, non-actions, withering, chronic disease management plans, hydrotherapy, physiotherapy, specialist appts. Wheelchairs, and mobility aids.
Break-through pain. OHHHHH ohhh OHHHHH ohhh OHHHHH.
Say it, say it, speak. I resent your INK, I do, I do.
Pain suffering, illness, bleakness, inertia, cruel joke, funny guy!
Good-bye sophisticated life. You did get close.
I will not be nice today, I will not be helpful, be accommodating.
Okay. Okay. Okay.
 
Our cells are great little workers and then they are not.
Some of them live in complete darkness and
Do plan to take over the HOST, which is you. Beware ok.
 
I am well fed up with paper and ink.
Thoughts views, sayings, all words, all descriptions,
Opinions.
Let my creased paper body, and my creased paper bed.
Go back to its suffering, it does it well.
Be testament to my human spirit, pure as it can be.
 
Laugh bone and cackle too,
Do it louder for all to see,
Why don’t you?
Stay abusive Nerve, you will anyways do as you wish.
Or keep sleepy, slow, and lethargic.
Nervous rigid muscle, keep on keeping, tighten your reins.
Brain, oh ball and chain,
vice-on-my-head – your thoughts did this.
My vice – listening and caring for you all – too much.


It is easier to cave into it all. And that I have learnt
Brings me to a five instead of a seven, through gritted teeth though.
 
Oh, dam you PAIN. Really the next life will be easier.
That is certain. God has promised me.
 
Oh Medicine, INK, Oh Malicious World,
You are here and you are amoebic,
You crawl, slither, froth, and bite,
At this crossroad whereby vitality, peace and other,
ran for the green safe hills.
To a stronger paper-bark shelter. Indigenous and safe.
 
Navigate me out, it is not too hard, will you?
I am a good person. Despite how I sound on here.
Of wretched love hate dysphoria. Yes, DOC, you have it too.
It is not only ME.
You are but human. And I am at times not.
Medicine. Inc.
INK.
Bless you, you too pain.

Like birdseed, a sequinned
gown,
 
They would glitter them into the crowd each year around Christmas time.
 
 It was your smear- fingered -smile
 Little treat. We curled our tiny bodies into the ruby- lip
 slippered red
 of those opulent seats, sat tight as a bow. We savoured the buttons up…
 
Hush,
now let us
begin.
 
Slam
      
        Searing
 
 Black.
 
That gunshot
 spike
crack was the very worst sound of my life. I wanted to shred
shed 
 
wolf
peel
at my skin. Wings
battling uselessly into the wax of
lights.
 
You're a hunted animal. Fresh.
screams, fever, green
 gaping horror-mouthed memories
 bashing again and again and again and again at the walls.
 
Trapdoor.
Claw.
 
After a while, you know the hot scent
of desperation. It's the ugly, stubborn snarl of curled fag smoke.
 
If you want a light, you always, always, always have to ask them, even though you can hear them: their
crabapple
laughs
crackle,
 
vines
 choke at your ankles
 along the whole sterile length
 of the aisle.
 
Snare, trap, flare.
You're cored.
 
You can no longer bear the sight of them. You shrivel in the corner and lick at
your wounds.
 
Fawn and
Freeze.
 
Retreat, curl up and
Dry.
 
Eventually,
you don't even recognise
 your own white face. You are definitely not today
 
The fairest, fairest…
 
Each nightfall, animated eyes
 blare in this hunter's wood. They watch, watch, watch
Watch. Your hair witches with time.
You hold out your finger not for a ring, but for yet another bite
 
of heat and blood;
  Your body spread out on a slab.
 
 Be good
 
or they won't let you out…
 
Gasp down
 
 til you bloat
  leak
 and weep
     like a frog.
 
It's not real, it's not real. It's not real…
 
Now
 you're encased
into tall ivied
walls. What you know
 is that they long to return the lush butchered prize
of your heart.
 
who even is the villain
Anymore?
 
One night,
someone pads. tears at the plastic with fangs-
and there's that familiar sweet purple glint once more.
It's winking at you:
 royal
like a cloak.

I have been asleep, what can I say?
I missed a few years, gliding in
and out of old nightmares, not always
 
night dreams. Sometimes
I’d daydream my way through months
before the screams would
 
force me back into the darkness.
Sleeping was better than being awake
and watching the reactions to
 
my twitching (how horrible to witness
yourself in a nightmare).
I hadn’t noticed it was twenty years
 
since I had had a thought, a real thought
that breathed in the air.
Sleep thoughts seemed so
 
convincing (I do dream in colour, don’t
you?) and the thought woke me
and I realised I was naked
 
(I always sleep naked, don’t you?
Well you don’t have to say, you
weren’t on display whilst sleeping)
 
and a fig leaf won’t do, not
after all these years, a fig leaf
doesn’t even begin to cover it.

​The bright colours
of a seaside variety
dotted on beach huts
stretch out behind me.
The smattering of rain
strives to deter
their charm and attraction.
 
Today,
thoughts cry.
The sand dilutes.
With stress,
fragments and words
from my pen fray.
The pavement weeps,
and it distracts my eyes.
Shoulders knot.
The sun collides.
The sea falls short.
 
Tomorrow,
attentiveness will win.
A visit here will champion.
Clothes will lead.
Colours share.
Stages glow.
The wind will rejoice.
The song will saunter.
Loneliness will dwindle.

     I’ve had my boss battles with exes & ecstasy,
almost lost my lives & pressed my perks,
      but in real life, you cannot change difficulty 
 
Zeffo checkpoints, slave to shapes 
& analog sticks, new cut scenes,
            I’m stronger with armours, upgrades & allies
 
but the final boss taunts, taking
names like Coronavirus & BXO
                                   & PTSD – I am not ready
 
           they know the force better
 (& their weapons are way cooler);
so, for now, I hold this ground
 
& I’ll always remember when I heard you say
                       ‘when an obstacle is in the way,
                                           it becomes the way’

When everywhere is dark & silent - birds have slept in their nest,
men have gone to the heaven, sky has been covered by the black cloud
with little ashes, animals have taken a rest from hunting, eyes have left the watching
mouthes have stopped the talking, legs & hands have hidden their appearances,
noises are no where to be found,
talk to me then _ I will be waiting for your call beside the river
Where I could hear your voice like that flow of water
Let us meet in the night, when we could hear our voices loudly & clearly.

About the author:
Imam Sarafadeen is a Nigerian poet and writer with a passion for poetry and other literary genres. His works centers on grief, love, and nature and his works have appeared and are forthcoming in Poetry Soup, Baskadia, Words Rhymes & Rhythm, Sychronized Chaos, Academy of heart and mind, Poetry Planet and elsewhere. Sarafadeen is currently studying the English Language at Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto, Sokoto State. Nigeria.

He is Imam Sarafadeen on Facebook and 11bamikale on both Twitter & Instagram.

A manager's office is built with spin chairs and sighs,
desktop with mountains built with prioritization.
storms build with skins to maintain professionalism
and platitude greets good morning with strong steps,
walking tall through dawns wear and tear
that lingers in nonverbal cues,
meeting pleasantry with formal attire
while the unspoken falls off their sleeves.
with heavy concerns under noisy spike heels
or a trouser's feet walking tall with facial grimaces,
left expose nerve on the peak of strangulated exertion
which need subordinate’s attention.

​I left the city and went back home to the countryside
carrying a suitcase packed with the silence,
the journey of time could be identified upon its wrinkles
and the foundation remain with regrets and balcony splits,
after I wiped the journey from off my heels, I stood and looked
at the future through the grey mist of caducity, fat and overweight
as it eats nothing else except arthritis.
then cold shoulders administered themselves to my welcome
at a cold place beneath the roof,
where nonverbal cues are louder than my voice
and cigar puffs the air to sedate all that lies within,
but wounded words which fell from toxic breath
is stronger than barking dogs,
and the fragile window glasses fail to withstand against the martyred words,
which exposed to a neighborhood of vile tongues louder than my dislikeness,
as the twilight frowned upon the post meridian the sea rest upon my lashes
only to be hushed by curtains and doors,
the crewing dawn open its eyes with wine brawlers of passerby
spitting reality in drunken tales that become a stir of echoes for barking dogs.
Through shifted curtains intoxication identify itself
with tilted bones that rocks with the wind, while expose nerve open to dispute.
Into the west of a hard knock life, a place that reveal how weevil dances in dry cornmeal,
Proves how stronger I am than a giant, because I carry the thunder inside my belly.
and if I complain those around me replied and said, God didn’t make the world
with oil only salt, this is the bitter wind at my ears when I still complained and the world
replied and said, God didn’t make the world with oil and dead meat, only salt proverbs and poetry.

About the author: 
Fadrian Bartley is a creative writer from Kingston Jamaican, his poetry is available in journals and online web magazines such as mixedmag.com. Pif-Magazine. The-horrzinemagazine.com Bloodmoonrising.com, and Festivalforpoetry.com. Fadrian is currently pursuing his degree as a freelance writer, his inspiration comes from within and continuously opening new pages to begin a new chapter.  

Let us hold men in our hands to feel their rough edges between our fingers,
and massages their temper before we misunderstand.
let us have them submit to our attention
and call that moment the vibes,
so their inner voice will speak through puffing cigars
and the smell of intoxicated pores through thick skins.
let us speak to them in silence
since they already know the meaning of that word
but not in the shape and form of poetry,
let them know that giants cannot crush the rain with bare hands
or sweep away the river with their lashes.
let them know that it is ok to empty the soul in front of the universe for all to see
and release the clogged tunnel in their veins,
let them know that petals bleed when no one is looking
but birds and butterflies will know.

 i have never felt safe in my purple framed mind.
i lay on my side with my brain wide open, hoping love
 
will blow through my window. the door swings
open from the emptiness of the wind, and creaks
 
gently at me, before it slams to a frigid stop.
as if to remind me that i am more alone than he.
 
he has his handle, his screws and bolts, and his frame
to fall safely and comfortably back into.
 
i have nothing but my restless mind,
and some dull furniture that shines brighter than i.
 
even the roses outside in the neighbours garden have had
more growth than i in these past few years. Growth.
 
a word that floats in a wavering gold liquid on my tongue.
i want to touch it, taste it, embrace it. and i do. it is disgusting. tiresome. cold.
 
it saturates my mouth like curdled summer ice cream,
melting in mid air. the taste of another dreaded friday enters my mind.
 
reminding me that i have a whole new week ahead of me to feel
low again. to feel stunted. to feel grey, not gay.
 
i wish i was a somnambulist. i would do all that i needed to do in my sleep
washing myself, eating, exercise, perhaps even act polite and social.
 
without the pain and bore of it all. without having to actually do it.
without being myself. without being by myself. alone. cold. Icy.