Supper For The Depressed – Poem By Akinbola (K)hadijat


Each pebble I threw into the ocean
Were to transfer my pains into the ocean’s heart, deep.
If my worries find solitude in her closet,
Conditionally I will leave for my abode empty of insecurities.

The condition was a riddle never deciphered.
Perhaps, those insecurities and fears never existed.
But still, conceivably I dwelled on the comments they passed overly,
Or, I imagined; pains are concrete,
The cross we nail from people’s carelessness
And bear around to the displeasure of our souls.

Also Read: What If It’s A Girl – Short Story By Akinbola (K)hadijat

Sometimes it’s not their carelessness,
But our patented fear that they will mock at our unwholesome lunch.
Interestingly NOBODY ever cared, although they’ll pass comments;
You’re SOLELY in charge of the factory that burns unmerited crosses.
The mountains are to be mounted,
The drinkling drinkling of the river to give your soliloquy a melody,
The flight of gay birds to question why you chose to keep so lowly;
All the while the whole wide world has been on your side.

It was just a deep-re(ce)ssion,
The lines and curves will rise to the boom point –
You are dead, shrouded, buried,
This piece is not for you.
And as a first time offender
Forgive me for raising my tone at your decision.
I can’t learn how to walk in your shoes because I have no feet,
Although I have a thousand shoes and I will have to keep yours too:
To examine if they ever cracked;
To examine how badly the soles were pierced;
To examine how often the laces losen…
I am no judge and I don’t have a foot,
But I know happiness is handmade.

You’re Reading:. Supper For The Depressed – Poem By Akinbola (K)hadijat

We are equally mice –
We whimper and fidget.
But in our ledger we save dates
Of the day each wound healed,
Not the day they were inflicted.
So we bear our scars with new vigor,
Getting our pots, plates and condiments,
Because happiness they say is handmade,
And our pains must be enjoyed anyway;
Boiled, grilled, fried or baked.
Whether the kitchen is smoky or otherwise,
We will have to enjoy our supper
Made of undone injuries, tasty guts and burnt misery.

Handmade and not perfect,
We live in happiness limping on a leg.
Recession may come again but we’ll rise above the crises
As the mice in the cities do.
Please prepare your supper because nobody will,
And enjoy its wholesomeness- undone or burnt
Because you are the best chef in the universe,
And nobody can dish your meal better.

Also Read: This Is Not A Love Poem – Poem By Sanusi Emmanuel

No one needs you to live but you,
So don’t leave, instead live every moment –
Enjoy the cooking of your own supper.


Supper For The Depressed – Poem By Akinbola (K)hadijat
Supper For The Depressed – Poem By Akinbola (K)hadijat


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