What the Night Knows

There are nights her absence feels like smoke,
curling through my chest, choking the calm.
I taste her memory in the hollow of silence,
where shadows bruise the edges of my thoughts.
Even the moon looks away, ashamed to watch
a man unravel for what he cannot hold.

Her scent is a ghost of warmth that drifts still,
sliding through the dark like forbidden mercy.
I reach for her in the ruins of sleep,
but touch only air that trembles and retreats.
Longing becomes a wound I tend in secret,
Pain that ripens instead of fades.

Desire throbs beneath my ribs, uninvited,
a wild animal pacing in the dark of my chest.
It claws at reason, begging for release,
but all I have are sounds, soft and cruel.
Her voice, a phantom flame,
burns through the marrow of my restraint.

Every breath betrays me,
it fills with her, spills her, breaks me.
The world outside is still and indifferent,
yet inside, storms whisper her name.
She exists in the spaces between heartbeats,
where silence grows teeth and feeds on hope.

If love is holy, then longing is its sin,
and I am forever kneeling at its altar.
I’ve bartered peace for memory,
and find myself worshipping what once was touch.
Her absence wears the scent of rain,
sweet, cold, and never staying.

So I burn in quiet devotion,
in the hollow glow of what could have been.
The night knows my secret, it sighs it low,
under the veil of stars, patient and cruel.
I am the thirst that calls her name in vain,
the light that dies waiting to be seen.

@doddyokelo

A Place Only We Know

Meet me,
in the quiet tremor between your heartbeat and your breath,
where silence breathes itself into longing,
and the shadows of your heart whisper soft songs
only the two of us can hear.
There, love hides barefoot,
waiting for us to arrive without words,
without fear, only pulse and promise.

Meet me among the stars,
where ambition burns like incense,
and the galaxies whisper of us in light-years.
See how my eyes hold constellations
that spell your name in patient fire,
how even the dark bends slightly
to make room for our glow.

Meet me where the ocean exhales,
where the horizon trembles like a secret,
and salt baptizes every forgotten pain.
Let the tide pull us clean of yesterday,
let the water write forgiveness
across our skin until we gleam
with something close to forever.

Meet me in the forest’s open breath,
where trees lean close as witnesses,
and sunlight spills like honey between their fingers.
Here, the earth sings beneath our feet,
a lullaby older than sorrow.
We’ll rest where roots remember love
more deeply than words ever could.

Meet me upon the drifting clouds,
that tender border where heaven blushes
against the skin of the world.
Let’s waltz on vapor,
our laughter scattering like rain over cities asleep,
each drop a note of joy
falling back to where we began.

Meet me atop the mountain’s breath,
where air is thin but truth is thick.
Breathe me in until your lungs forget
where you end and I begin.
Let the wind carry our names into eternity,
two syllables of devotion
resonating through stone and sky alike.

Meet me, my love,
not in time, but beyond it.
Not in place, but in presence.
Anywhere the soul dares to open,
any moment brave enough to bloom.
Meet me there,
where everything is still,
and we are infinite.

@doddyokelo

Daughter of The Mountain

I met her on an afternoon
when the sun burned low,
spilling gold across the earth
as though the day itself leaned close
to let slip its quiet confessions.

She was slim-thick,
a flame held steady in the wind,
with a presence that filled the space
more surely than height or breadth could command.
Her skin bore the quiet radiance
of fertile Kenyan earth after rain,
luminous, alive with the memory of rivers.

Her beauty was the beauty that stays,
like a song remembered long
after the singer has gone.
Her eyes were wide, dark pools,
holding the innocence of unspoken dreams,
and the fierce pride of the hills,
green and ancient,
keepers of stories older than memory.
When she looked, it was not merely at you,
it was into you,
as though the soul were something
she had always known,
and only sought to confirm.

Her laughter was small, quick,
yet it carried,
like the delicate chiming of cowbells
drifting from a far valley.
Her movements, precise, almost shy,
the way a swallow folds its wings before flight,
yet within them was a grace
no stage could rehearse.

She was not made of ornaments or excess
but of silences,
of natural songs,
of that soft balance between fragility
and unyielding strength.

To call her beautiful
would be to simplify what was infinitely complex.
She was the outline of twilight
against the ridge,
the fragrance of tea leaves
crushed between fingers,
the silence of evening rain on tin roofs.
She was the Mountain itself,
its promise, its mystery,
its unbroken spirit made flesh.

And in her presence,
I felt the world pause,
as though even time leaned in
to watch her pass.

@doddyokelo

The Price of Exposure

You’re probably going to hate me for this,
for saying what your conscience whispers
when you sign another “volunteer” form
with a smile that smells of we value young people.
You’ll roll your eyes, perhaps, and sip your latte of hypocrisy,
thinking, here comes another entitled youth,
but entitlement, dear boss,
isn’t wanting to eat after working all day.

You strip me, layer by layer, of what I call wealth,
my knowledge, my wit, my sweat, my small fire.
You harvest my brilliance like cheap sugarcane,
sweet in your tea, but I can’t even taste it.
You call it capacity building, I call it theft,
a robbery wrapped in an MOU,
my “voluntary spirit” framed for your annual report,
while my rent notice glares at me like a sermon.

You say you’re driving the SDGs, how noble of you,
yet “No Poverty” only applies to your side of the table.
Number one for the world, zero for your interns.
You speak of “empowering youth” in PowerPoint slides,
but I am the unpowered socket,
feeding your lights while mine flicker out.
Your sustainability is built on our hunger,
your progress paved with our unpaid hours.

You call it exposure, and oh, what a beautiful word,
it sounds almost like opportunity, until you taste it.
Exposure doesn’t buy food; it buys silence.
You frame my effort as experience,
but experience doesn’t buy groceries, does it?
You say, We’re giving you a chance to grow!
but even weeds grow, sir, without applause.
You’re not nurturing me, you’re grazing me.

You post us on banners, smiling youth in motion,
while your pockets jingle with the funds meant for impact.
You call us family, until invoices arrive.
You teach us leadership, yet lead us nowhere,
preach partnership, yet practice servitude.
You love to say the youth are the future,
as if tomorrow is a fairy tale
where our unpaid labour finally blossoms into paychecks.

But I am not the leader of tomorrow, my friend,
I am breathing, burning, now.
I can lead today, even with pockets empty
and dignity frayed at the edges.
You can’t buy me with a sweet smile or a promise,
I’ve had enough candy-coated lies to rot a generation.
Respect is currency too,
but even that you spend carelessly.

Every “volunteer opportunity” feels like déjà vu,
different desk, same exploitation.
We bring innovation, you bring excuses.
We bring ideas, you bring coffee orders.
And when the impact stories roll out,
you wear our work like a medal,
while we wear exhaustion like second skin,
our dreams taxed by your benevolence.

So here I stand, unapologetic, yes, but sober still.
I’m not asking for charity, just fairness.
Pay us for our time, our skill, our sweat.
We can’t build a better world with empty pockets.
You call it volunteering; I call it slow bleeding.
You say it’s for the love of service,
but love without respect is labour without pay,
and we, the youth, are done being the invoice you never clear.

@doddyokelo

Love, Receipted

You call me lazy,
as if rest were rebellion,
as if the absence of a paycheck meant
I’d married idleness and sworn fidelity to failure.
You think I wake each morning to romance poverty,
to sip on the bitter tea of rejection
and call it breakfast.

You think I don’t hunt for work,
darling, I’ve applied so hard the internet knows my name.
I’ve learned new skills until my mind wheezes from exhaustion,
repackaged my dreams in “professional tone,”
and written cover letters that could melt granite.
Still, the silence from employers breathes louder
than any sermon on hard work.

But go on, roll your eyes like coins in a rich man’s pocket.
You love the performance of pity, don’t you?
The way you sigh,
You wear my struggle like a badge
that says “look what I tolerate.”
You hold my empty wallet against my neck
like a priest offering salvation through mockery.

Your friends, the walking bank accounts,
toast to success with imported laughter.
They look at me the way one studies
a museum exhibit labeled Before Success.
And you,
you shrink beside them,
embarrassed to be seen loving someone
who doesn’t come with receipts.

I know I can’t afford dinner dates,
but baby, I can give you poetry,
written with hunger’s ink,
where every word costs a piece of my pride.
You want steak, I offer metaphors,
you want champagne, I bring conversation.
But apparently, love without a tip is just noise.

You say I make excuses,
as if failure were a choice I make before breakfast.
Man, I’ve tried,
tried until my hope broke its spine
from bending too long under your expectations.
But effort doesn’t trend, does it?
It’s not sexy on Instagram.

You used to look at me like promise,
now you look at me like pity dressed for dinner.
Your eyes audit my worth
like a cashier scanning expired dreams.
You don’t even say it out loud,
but your silence spells liability.
Love, it seems, needs a payslip now.

So go ahead, call me disgusting,
a broke ass night certified by circumstance.
Laugh with your friends,
they’ve earned their arrogance.
I’ll be here, broke but breathing,
scribbling poems on the back of rejection letters,
because even in poverty, darling,
I write better than they ever will live.

@doddyokelo

Light of My Days

There are many names for a woman,
but none that speak your fullness,
you are dawn in its first whisper of gold,
a soft psalm wrapped in morning light,
a cathedral of calm where my heart kneels,
finding faith again in the sound of your voice.

You walk as if the earth remembers your kindness;
flowers lift their faces in your passing.
Your laughter, a river that knows its way home,
sculpts joy across the landscape of our days.
Even silence becomes sacred when shared with you,
for you breathe poetry into the air itself.

Once, you were a girl with suns in her eyes,
and the world crowned you mother,
not with jewels, but with gentle burdens,
and you bore them like grace itself.
Your hands stitched comfort into chaos,
turning hunger into hope, noise into hymn.

In your eyes, I have seen God’s tender art,
the patience of oceans, the courage of storms.
You are the soft peace that follows heartbreak,
the reason broken wings learn to fly again.
Your love has been both shelter and sword,
cutting fear from the edges of my name.

Every word I’ve ever spoken carries your echo,
each dream is scented faintly with your prayers.
You are the unseen flow in my becoming,
the quiet architect of my strength.
When I stumbled, you became the ground beneath me,
steady, forgiving, endlessly near.

What language could ever hold your worth?
What poet could bind your light in ink?
You are not to be described, but felt,
like rain, or grace, or home after exile.
And so, I do not thank you with words,
but with the life you helped me build.

Here’s to you, Mum,
keeper of warmth, bearer of mornings,
woman of endless tomorrows.
May joy drape you like silk at sunrise,
and time bow gently before your smile.
You are every beautiful thing I know.

Happy Birthday,
for the world grew softer the day you were born,
and I have been blessed to call its miracle Mother.

@doddyokelo

Dreams of You

There’s a smooth quiet caressed across the night tonight, a velvet calm that drifts between heartbeats and carries your name upon the slow breath of the wind. I can almost hear your laughter threading through the silence like moonlight through lace, reminding me what peace feels like when love finds its way home.

To be loved by you is to rest inside calm waters after a storm, warmth flowing like quiet light, a tender ease that tells my heart it has arrived. It’s not mere affection, it’s devotion that mends the soul and slows even the restless stars.

I find myself missing your company more than words could dare explain. You have that gentle way of turning absence into longing and longing into poetry. Even from afar, your presence stays like a soft perfume in the air, written through my thoughts, through the gentle cadence of my breath, through the still corners of my room.

Tonight, the world feels a little bluer, a little emptier, because I want you here beside me. I crave the comfort of your voice, the safety of your arms, the laughter that folds itself into love. You’ve become the quiet I reach for when everything else grows too loud.

So as the night settles and dreams begin to bloom, may you rest easy knowing you’re deeply loved, by me, endlessly and truly. Sleep beautifully, my love. Good night.

@doddyokelo

Tailored To Your Ego

You teach me how to love,
like a tutor with a chalk of affection,
sketching rules on my heart’s blackboard,
telling me where to pause, where to ache,
how to sing your name.
And I, the willing fool, take notes,
hoping to pass your exam of devotion.

You say, be the best person you can be,
but only when that person pleases you.
How noble, how godly, how perfectly human
to mold me into a version of you,
and call it growth.
Love, you say, is sacrifice,
but it’s always my neck on the altar.

A romance tailor-made, you claimed,
stitched with precision and care,
fitted to the edges of your comfort zone,
hemmed with your insecurities,
fastened with silent rules I never signed.
Sorry, my love, correction,
fitted not for love, but your ego’s parade.

Still, I tried.
God knows, I tried.
And in the trying, I learned,
how love can shape a man into a shadow,
how tenderness can bruise if held too tight,
how devotion, when one-sided,
becomes self-destruction in silk.

You ask what I’ve learned in return?
That your affection has terms and conditions,
your heart is a subscription service
that renews only when I bow enough,
laugh enough, obey enough.
You call me names when I forget,
darling, I’ve never seen such poetry in cruelty.

You say you can’t do this anymore,
compare me to your gallery of ghosts,
men built in marble, flawless in memory.
And still, I stand there,
a living, breathing imperfection,
learning that your love speaks fluent disappointment.

So walk, my sweet torment.
Take your lessons, your mirrors, your masks.
You’ve taught me what love is not,
and that’s worth a diploma in heartbreak.
Go, darling devil,
your absence will be my peace,
and my freedom, finally tailored to me.

@doddyokelo

The White Rose of Evening

This evening, I longed to hear
the soft murmur of your voice,
a balm to soothe my restless day,
a whisper to draw all cares away.

I hoped these tired, journeying eyes
might rest upon your face,
the gentlest vision ever known,
a beauty wrought from heaven.

One word I wished my lips could send,
a tender phrase that has no end
Sleep well, my beautiful,
you are the hymn my soul will always sing.

Do you know, how fair you are?
No star holds such a faithful star,
and in your eyes the heavens lie,
two oceans deep, where tempests die.

They hold the light of morning skies,
the tender gleam where stillness hides,
a secret world where love abides,
the endless truth of paradise.

So take these words, though soft and few,
my white rose, pure as evening dew,
no poet’s hand could dare devise
a bloom more fair than your sweet eyes.

@doddyokelo

Petals of Creation

Behold the first flower of creation,
a hidden bloom,
felt by every soul that has ever drawn breath.
Its petals, folded in mystery,
open only to the warmth of love,
guarding within their tender veil
the sacred secret of beginnings.

Like a rose after rain,
it shines with jeweled dew,
soft as the earliest dawn,
yet alive with unspoken fragrance.
When gentleness comes near, it awakens,
glistening in pure response to love,
speaking in silence a language
written in water and in light.

At the first tender touch it quickens,
like a bud stirred by spring.
What was closed unfolds;
what was silenced stirs into song.
It grows succulent,
trembling with a hidden fire,
not conquered, but welcomed,
not taken, but persuaded with care.

Its warmth is the world’s first gift,
the hearth of the body,
the cradle of all human breath.
In its folds rests comfort,
in its depths, mystery profound,
in its glow, a flame both healing and consuming.
It is beauty perfected,
the flower that does not fade.

Yet such a blossom must be honored.
A harsh hand will bruise it;
a careless word will profane it.
It is no spoil for conquest,
but a living bloom for devotion,
to be held in the quiet awe
that bends the heart low,
as one stands before sacred fire.
Fragile as crystal,
yet enduring as the seasons,
strength dwelling in softness.

So let it be known:
the vagina is not mere flesh,
but the first temple,
the eternal flower of humankind.
Its petals bear the story of origin;
its softness teaches the humility of wonder;
its beauty is holy,
its gift eternal.
The first flower,
the last truth.

@doddyokelo