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
Category: Uncategorized
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.
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.
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.
The First Flower, The Vagina
The world has sung of sunrises,
of rivers keeping their promise to the sea,
of roses opening after rain.
But rarely has the world spoken
of the first flower it ever knew,
the blossom that does not grow in gardens,
yet feeds every root of humanity.
It cannot be withered by winter,
cannot be starved by famine,
cannot be broken by storm.
It is the beauty at the center of woman,
the place of birth,
of power,
of beauty,
of poetry.
It is no accident that her body
carries both beauty and beginning.
She is a garden,
her petals folding and unfolding with grace.
No sculptor has carved it,
no hand could fashion it better.
This is the seat of power,
waiting in patience,
waiting in reverence.
Do not call it small.
It is wide as oceans,
deep as memory.
Within its folds
nations are conceived,
histories take breath.
Its lines are strong
as the roots of the baobab,
steady as mountains
that do not move.
Yes, it is a flower,
but not a fragile bloom
that dies in the sun.
It is a rose of fire,
a blossom of strength,
pulsing with flow,
beating with song.
Tender for creation,
not decoration.
Its beauty is not for passing eyes,
but for the truth that life itself
begins here.
When it opens,
It blooms in trust,
in the warmth of love,
in the honest catch
of reverent hands.
Like dawn, it spills light.
Like rivers, it flows free.
And in its unfolding
is both poetry and prophecy.
Many have tried to name it,
to paint it,
to own it.
But it belongs to no brush,
no word,
no claim.
It is the garden every woman carries,
the fire every woman guards,
the throne every woman sits upon,
with dignity,
with laughter,
with strength.
Touch it,
and you touch mystery.
Look upon it with reverence,
and you see the handwriting of God
upon flesh.
Here hunger softens,
longing becomes creation,
desire meets its answer.
It is gift,
not possession.
Blessing,
not burden.
So speak of it with respect.
Speak of it as you would
the sun,
the river,
the ground beneath your feet.
It is flower,
it is fire,
it is freedom.
It is woman.
And in its beauty
lives a truth unshakable:
that life,
in all its splendor and sorrow,
begins here,
and nowhere else.
Stay With Me
I have never known a pain this sharp,
a hurt that stays in every breath,
as if sorrow has built a home inside my chest.
I sit here drowning in my own silence,
tears spilling like tides I cannot command,
wondering how I strayed,
wondering if I’ve lost the best part of me,
you.
I keep replaying my mistakes,
each one cutting deeper than the last,
and I fear that in their shadow,
your love for me might dim.
The thought alone unmakes me.
It is a heaviness I cannot outrun,
a shame that knots itself into my bones.
If only regret could mend,
if only apologies could erase,
I would gather up every fragment of your hurt
and carry it away until you felt light again.
But healing, I know, is not so quick.
It asks for patience. It asks for trust.
“I’m sorry” feels too small,
too fragile for the weight of what I mean.
Yet it is the truth on my tongue,
and I speak it with trembling hope.
Because we have weathered storms before,
you and I,
and somehow we’ve always come through
stronger, side by side.
Still, I know you deserve better
than the hurt I’ve caused.
I hate myself for placing this burden on you.
But if your heart can find space
for one more chance,
I promise I will spend every day
proving love right again,
proving us right again.
@okelododdychitchats
The Hour of Resignation
Is not the deep, dark rest a better plea,
When every single waking breath is war?
What am I fighting for, and what’s in store
But the same old tide that washes over me?
I searched the sunrise for a silver coin,
A simple piece of joy I could rejoin,
But found the coffer empty, shut, and cold,
The story of my striving left untold.
They promise gain, a comfort to be won,
If I just keep my shoulder to the stone.
But I have carried burdens all alone
From the first shadow cast beneath the sun.
I’ve seen no profit, felt no easing touch,
Just giving everything and getting much
Less than the peace the simple stones enjoy,
A hollow effort that I can’t employ.
Look on the record, read the final count,
There is no happiness beneath this sky.
The truth is written in the tear-wet eye,
The only offering from a spent account.
Every hard-won moment just a trade
For a new hurt, a deeper struggle made,
The only harvest that my hands can claim
Is the slow, bitter knowledge of the flame.
I tell you plainly, I can take no more.
The line is drawn, the final cord is cut.
My stubborn spirit, now locked in a rut,
Cannot hold past the breaking of the core.
This weight is not a thing you lift and clear,
It is the atmosphere of sorrow here.
The mind gives way, the tired will descends,
And all the forced endurance finally ends.
The anchors slip, the vessel has no guide,
The heart’s great drum beat only low and faint.
I won’t pretend, nor make myself a saint,
I only know I can no longer hide.
I am too fractured to be fixed again,
Too soaked in the relentless, icy rain,
The scaffolding of hope has bowed and split,
And I am done with all the grit and wit.
So let this truth be clear when I am gone,
My failing was not weakness of the soul.
I did not stumble short of any goal,
But fell beneath the weight of every dawn.
It was not sickness, foe, or sudden blast,
Life Itself came for me, and overcame at last.
The battle’s over. Hear the final word,
I lay my weary head down, like a bird.
@@okelododdychitchats
Man, I am Handsome
Men are not taught to see themselves as wonders.
We are raised to be stoic pillars, to bear weight in silence, to give and rarely pause to admire the giver. Yet here I stand, seeing myself with unashamed eyes, and for once, I speak it.
I am the most handsome man.
Mirrors tell me so,
Life itself sculpted me into this. I walk into a room and the air hesitates; I am presence. Followed by the rest—ah, perhaps one or two who might come close, but even then, I remain singular.
O God, you must have stayed on me.
When you carved the curve of this jaw, the arch of these shoulders, the stretch of these long bones reaching six feet tall. You painted my skin the deep color of rich earth after rain, dark, fertile, alive, and filled it with juice sweeter than the tongues of poets could ever capture.
Look at this frame: built with labor, yet graceful; strength that does not shout but simply exists, unyielding.
And within, a mind—ah, this mind!sharp enough to draw envy, steady enough to draw trust, restless enough to seek and never settle.
What else, man? What else could I ask for?
Potential thrumming in my veins, character like bedrock under my feet.
I am art. Not perfect, no, but what masterpiece ever was?
So here I am.
Appreciating me.
Because if I cannot honor the marvel of my own making, who will?
@okelododdychitchats
okelododdychitchats 