I would stand in the rain and get drenched while hoping for a chance at a worthwhile bloom. The rain with its resuscitating prowess makes the roses and tulips blossom with such lushing beauty, why can't it just help me as it does to this lesser and barely animate floras.
I felt shortchanged by the unfair trickles of rain, the overwhelming intent of being drenched mattered most to me, the ensuing cold sunk in, my quivering feet came to an abrupt halt as it stiffened. I knew well enough to call it quit but my seeming tanacity wouldn't just let me, I sat still while the rippling and hurting drops pelted me, then came streaks of bright lightnings accompanied by frightening thunder, i ran into the house scared and defeated while hoping for another day at a worthwhile bloom.

My stunt height and evasive beauty gave me out as "that ugly girl", I wasn't always called Ayanfe instead I was called "IYA AGBA" which meant "The Old One", a demeaning and senile name to call a girl, I used to think I was strong enough to keep the senile tag at bay but my waning strength would always cave in so i had to make peace with "IYA AGBA".

What I lacked in voluminous bosoms were rightly compensated with bulky lips and an ogre like appearance. I had an odd and yet stray physique with no beguiling features, I was more of a moving hulk with no feminine direction, there was no preciseness to me, i felt like some neuter figurine lost among the many beautiful ones.

Deep in the horrid confines of my heart I considered myself as being one of those (God) molded with less premium clay, the good stuff must have been in short supply so he improvised with something aversive and cheap, apparently I meant little to him.

Apart from being molded absent mindedly, I felt lady like and not like an wholesome lady, what I totally lacked in appealing features were eventually grossed up in my brain.
Though I was slightly above the age of sixteen with minuscule bosoms which was something short of an infant fist but I gracefully carried an acumen that was beyond my stunt age, blessed with an innate knowledge of Ifa narratives, I was a marvel of some sort, at least to my ugly self I was, my numerous oddities were grossed up in a rewarding brain, if I had my way I would choose beauty over brains but here i am stuck and with no power over my preferences, my brain seemed to be more of a glut I thought, I lacked the gait that came with being witty.

The nauseating thought of being frail and ugly brought with it sleepless night, I didn't look like the others, I looked different and somewhat scary.

ttime:


don't take this the wrong way but, poetry is a lot more than jambling rhymes together...
and those rhymes aren't even properly rhymed.

its meant to be recited, the end rhymes helps if its a recital..

Not all my poems are rhymes laced..