Nostalgia
It’s the sick feeling
that runs in your blood at that
awkward time
The annoying slimy
nausea that sticks in the throat
like expired food
Bringing me to
the brink of a tolerance
breakdown at that unexpected
time
Yet relentlessly making it
worse and flipping the impulsive
switch to that impulsive
mood
Flashes and flashes of the
forgotten pleasures streaming
through my head like Ford on the
Tema Motorway..Crowding my
thoughts and slowing my
aggression as it explodes as a
thorough session of rigorous
attention and altering my
intentions
I speak of she that has
been supposedly expelled from
my bosom; sliced and cast down
last like Lucifer from the Heavenly
Kingdom
She is the apple I tasted
and relished; the tender and
sweet-scented shape that robbed
my body - the immaculate lips
that locked mine in immeasurable
ecstasy But the venom that
paralyzed me, the smoke that
blackened my lungs and the
dagger that pierced my heart'' I
love you'', she says,'' I never
forgot you... You are the best!''
Such cliche language she speaks
as her breathe touches my
cheeks.... Dancing around like a
puppy doll with new batteries;
obviously the madness is in her
arteries
She's a wasted fruit and a
queen exiled for debauchery
As
fake as political ceremonies and
as plastic as Michael Jackson's
nose... '' For old times sake...'',
she spills out. My head spinning
and whirling round...But snap! I
kick out of it! I escape the grips of
nostalgia that for a minute stuck
me to the ground
No more
vulnerable to this hound, her
smiles make no sound as I lick my
wound
But oh! I must've
forgotten; my wounds are dead!
Nana Quajo Manuel®
©2011
It’s the sick feeling
that runs in your blood at that
awkward time
The annoying slimy
nausea that sticks in the throat
like expired food
Bringing me to
the brink of a tolerance
breakdown at that unexpected
time
Yet relentlessly making it
worse and flipping the impulsive
switch to that impulsive
mood
Flashes and flashes of the
forgotten pleasures streaming
through my head like Ford on the
Tema Motorway..Crowding my
thoughts and slowing my
aggression as it explodes as a
thorough session of rigorous
attention and altering my
intentions
I speak of she that has
been supposedly expelled from
my bosom; sliced and cast down
last like Lucifer from the Heavenly
Kingdom
She is the apple I tasted
and relished; the tender and
sweet-scented shape that robbed
my body - the immaculate lips
that locked mine in immeasurable
ecstasy But the venom that
paralyzed me, the smoke that
blackened my lungs and the
dagger that pierced my heart'' I
love you'', she says,'' I never
forgot you... You are the best!''
Such cliche language she speaks
as her breathe touches my
cheeks.... Dancing around like a
puppy doll with new batteries;
obviously the madness is in her
arteries
She's a wasted fruit and a
queen exiled for debauchery
As
fake as political ceremonies and
as plastic as Michael Jackson's
nose... '' For old times sake...'',
she spills out. My head spinning
and whirling round...But snap! I
kick out of it! I escape the grips of
nostalgia that for a minute stuck
me to the ground
No more
vulnerable to this hound, her
smiles make no sound as I lick my
wound
But oh! I must've
forgotten; my wounds are dead!
Nana Quajo Manuel®
©2011
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