My mouth has lost the sweet savour
My eyes, have poured out an ocean
My tiny legs are almost broken. I’ve trekked the Sahara.
My mind is confused. All I need is help from poetry.

If I were a poet, I’d write about the hurdles,
the pains and height my head has scaled through.
Just like the families of victims in Benue,
the dead in the south South who are neglected,
Poetry will do the healing from such magnitude of pain.

If I were a poet, I’d draw lines of Simile,
Build metaphoric pyramids that are endowed with rich ironies
Then, cloth it with the best oxymoron admit my wardrobe of alliteration.
But here I am, lacking words like Lazarus lacking meal
Here I am searching for crumbs of words just to express my feelings.

If I were a poet, I’d write a few stanzas and paint them blank
of answers to questions that lies in there.
My tiny lines would cause an enjambment
where heads will clash to give spill over of ideas.

If I were a poet, I would write you, write me and the probably, Us.
I’ll tell a story of how happy we started, where we are,
how we got here and finally, predict our sad ending.
I know it would draw tears, just like we did to ourselves,
from the well of our eyes.

If I were a poet, I’d write a song for the birds.
A song of sorrow and teach our lips the rhythm.
I’ll command the birds to watch us fall to our knees
for we’ve caged ourselves in hate not to be free like them.

Oh! If only I were a poet would I write these.
I’d show the world that we lost the energy, the vibe and probably, the vision
that should lead us to our promise land.
I just wish heavens hear my cry and grant me the might to be a poet
One that would paint words, and present them to draw tears of regret.

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