Jesse Ojuka

One hundred hours have passed since my last meal,
yet I do not hunger for breakfast. 
My mind is a blade today, maybe a twig tomorrow. 
I will not overthink myself into the ice age. 
I’m part of The Renaissance, the rebirth of true art. 
Sing to me muse, Clio. 
Pour the vanilla. 
Dance with me. 
The ground shakes as I take place. 
Life is candy. 
My hunger is grizzly. 
I smiled at the rejection today. Imagine. 
A story to tell. 
Twice rejected. Soon respected. 
Art is the pulse of life. 
Burn the tea. 
Veins bulge along my arm. 
They boast a pinch of my strength. 
Trickery when told it’s a sin to be self-aware. 
They would rather I shrink into their palm. 
Ireland is a lustful land. 
The weather is the furious wife and drowns it with tears. 
I’d rather be broke and free, than rich and trapped. 

For a moment, the silence pulled me away. 
I turn my head to look outside the window to see if the world has suddenly stopped. 
The moment is gone. 
Though it lasts forever on this page.