He Was Done
By Precious Oluwadahunsi.

And he was done.
And yes, he was going to let it burn.

He was done,
pretending everything was fine.
He was done,
putting up memes,
That he didn’t define.
He was done looking like he stuck to principles,
His inner core defied.

He was done with this image of perfection,
People had of him,
He was taking off the halo from off his head,
Because he knew that,
That mental picture was just a den,
And he was no angel.


They’d set that public-image-colouration-page,
It was a maximum security cage.
And for years he doubted if he had grown at all,
For all he had done was to repaint,
The hues of that mental image,
They all had of him,
And for him.

He was removing the flaps,
And untangling himself from that spider web.
What they thought ,
Had mattered so much,
All it had caused him was distress.
And for years,
He’d try to repress,
The eruption of internal content,
Who so clearly wanted to express,
And redress,
The unsavoury gift of respect,
That caused him regrets.

For years he’d always thank God,
For cancelled meetings,
And lazy lecturers.
His commendable punctuality,
Were the results of 5 minutes of running legs,
And the ability of bike men,
To move with maximum skill and dexterity,
To his place of meeting.

He struggled with lust,
And so what?
All his life,
He’d been the preacher of holiness,
Purity and sanctity.
But when you come to the University,
It seems your eyes see,
And the beams lift from,
The rim of your eyelids.

And yes,
he’d always condemned,
“Bleep boys”
But from Rose to Regina,
From Tolu to Tosin,
He’d explored all 360 degrees,
Acute and obtuse angles,
And irregular lines,
Of their magnetic bodies,
In his mind.

And yes,
He wanted to tell someone,
He was busy but not building.
Occupied but not satisfied,
His objectives never stratified.
Often in a lot of things engaged,
But that aspect of his life was in total disarray.
People described him as efficient,
But he knew, he knew not,
What effective was.

So, to hell with their colourations!
To hell with their thoughts,
To 6 feet under the ground with their perfect image of him,
To Kirikiri with these bonds,
They entangled him with.

He wasn’t going to boil bad blood,
Neither would he be like Bad Moms,
He needed help and he was going to get it.
He was going to open up, this,
Throng of twisted knots,
In his inside,
To an accountability partner,
Who could help.

He couldn’t die inside anymore,
He didn’t care about their small talk,
He was done!.

welldone, would av commented on it but i think it's better i leave that to the gurus, am just a poem lover passingby.