By Juliet Adeniran.
That Same Old Chair
That same old chair
Where I sat,
Watching the day wasted away.
The name is what brought me up,
From that same old chair.
That same old chair
I glued, counting the days
That I would never have to answer,
As the name being called,
From that same old chair.
That same old chair:
Many days had passed,
Dreaming, hoping and full of thoughts,
That I would never have to answer,
From that same old chair.
That same old chair
Where I spent the days,
Surrounded by books, pens and ideas,
And stood up when I was called,
From that same old chair.
That same old chair
Where I despised the name,
Having to stand up now and then,
Answering the name with a sigh,
From that same old chair.
No Illness for the Rich?
Their pockets are full of gold…
Some shining little silvers
With a mouth shaped by cold…
Control at the tip of their fingers.
Should such rare gems get ill?
Most treasured piece in the society!
Should any sort of stain stay?
Why aren’t they refined gingerly?
The world waits on them each day.
Why then do they visit the antibiotic home?
Never should that be a place for them
To say, “No illness for the rich.”
Yes! Even the mighty folks get ill.
Why can’t health be bought at a price?
Yet, they suffer from it like others
To say, “The rich get sick.”
Why I Write?
I write to answer questions
That have a lot of answers and solutions to them,
But still, they go unanswered.
Happenings around us are wild,
And still, deaf ears we turn to them and look away,
Calamity falls on us afterward.
Why do I write? You ask me.
Lot of them have answers of their own, in their ways,
All can be right, I will tell you.
Feelings and thoughts I write,
Of what you think and dream of, under the sun,
Oh, I write for all of you.
-Photo by netmaru via Pixabay