Author: Ifedolapo Ogunniyi

Oh, humble pot belly, thou art so grand,
A symbol of life, as I understand.
In laughter and feasting, thou dost appear,
A total confirmation of joy and cheer.

Thy form is a chapter of stories told,
Of shared meals and moments, both young and old.
In the mirror, thou dost proudly display,
The comfort of nights and the warmth of the day.

Though some may jest and some may tease,
Thy presence, oh belly, brings comfort and ease.
In every fold, a memory lies,
Of celebrations, of love, and of pies.

Thou art not just flesh, but a beacon of grace,
A reminder of life’s simple embrace.
In every laugh and every bite,
Thou art a big show of life’s delight.

Cheers to thee, oh pot belly dear,
A symbol of happiness, year after year.
In every curve and every swell,
Thou art a story, a joy to tell.

© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi

Before you reach to mend another’s soul, 
Pause, and tend to the cracks within your own. 
For how can hands, still trembling with despair, 
Bind up wounds in others, if they are not yet repaired?

Look into the mirror, not just with your eyes, 
But with the heart that seeks where truth lies. 
Do not mask the scars, nor silence your pain, 
For in the light of honesty, healing begins to reign.

The world may call you to be their guide, 
But first, let wisdom in your heart reside. 
Fix yourself, let grace and strength be your tool, 
Then, when you reach to help, your touch will be true.

In fixing yourself, you will find the way, 
To lead others out of the shadowed gray. 
Stand tall in the light you have found within, 
And let your journey inspire others to begin.

© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi
2024

She once breathed as their beloved, 
A fragile petal in a storm unending, 
But shadows crept, their whispers cruel, 
And she, the offering, was cast into the night.

Love, a ghost, wove chains around her heart, 
Each link a lie, a promise undone. 
Her dreams were caged, wings clipped, 
A delicate bird, silenced by the dawn.

Trust was a blade that sliced her soul, 
Leaving scars that bled in the dark, 
In their hands, she was clay to be broken, 
Molded into a sacrifice, bitter and cold.

They etched their darkness into her veins, 
Her spirit shattered, left in the rain, 
She, the vessel of their sins, 
Fell into the abyss of their hollow grins.

Now she wanders, a shadow lost, 
Damaged beyond repair, a storm within. 
Her tears, the rain that never ceases, 
Drowning in echoes of love’s cruel deceases.

Yet even in the void, a flicker remains, 
A spark defiant, refusing to fade, 
But the wounds run deep, too deep to heal, 
And the night holds her, cold and real.

© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi
2024

Before I say no more,
Before I close this door,
Let me speak of love’s soft gleam,
And how it turned into a dream.

Once, your words were honey sweet,
Soft whispers in the night we’d meet.
But time has drawn a quiet line,
Where silence blooms, and hearts decline.

I remember when our eyes would dance,
In rhythms of a sweet romance.
But now the music fades away,
In the shadows where our feelings lay.

Before I say no more, my dear,
Let me make it crystal clear:
Love should be a place to grow,
Not a garden overrun with woe.

I wanted us to stand as one,
Through rain and shine, through night and sun.
But now, I am tired of asking why,
Of wondering when love passed us by.

Before I say no more, I will try,
To mend the broken wings that fly.
But if my efforts fall to the floor,
I will close this chapter, and say no more.

Hear me now, while there is still time,
Before the echoes lose their chime.
For in this space of hurt and pain,
We choose if love can rise again.

© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi
2024

There is a carnival at the graveyard tonight,
Yet only a beep breaks the silent night.
The moon plays hide-and-seek up high,
While stars pretend to sleep in the sky.

A coffin yawns with wooden jaws stretched wide,
“Who knew eternal rest could be this spry?” it sighed.

The skeletons, in their bony gala attire,
Dance a jig on tombstones, their movements quite inspired.
“Bone-tired we may be, but our spirits never tire,”
Said one, while playing ribs like a xylophone choir.

The ghost of Old Man Grim, with his scythe so gleaming bright,
Spun fables of yore, in a spectral kind of light.
“Reaping’s a grim job, but somebody’s gotta do it,”
He quipped, while his hollow eyes danced with ghostly wit.

A bat in a top hat, dapper and so grand,
Led an orchestra of owls, the best in all the land.
“Music to die for!” he declared with pride,
As their notes hung in the air, like souls yet untried.

The night wore on, with its macabre glee,
Even the weeping willows chuckled silently.
“Life’s a grave matter,” they rustled with delight,
“But death, oh death, brings a party every night!”

Oh! The beauty of the darkness carnival, where humor finds its place,
Death takes a bow, with a skeletal grace.
For even in the shadow’s grip, a laugh can be found,
When we become eternal masquerades, and we are all underground.

What a night!

© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi
2024