Ishaq Mustapha
This is not a poem
How can it be?
How do I write a poem when all I am is a sign language left unread
Constantly judged for being me— a spirit groping for meaning in flesh mouth pronged open
I am force-fed with the poison -NO- a word that snakes like ivy hot and slow-creeping within my inside
Growing into an eerie lush of garden where the footpaths of my ears become weary of formal introduction;
And skip hands akimbo to the eagerly anticipated arrival of all my fears
Years and years go tumbling by like a rolling stone
And all I do is judge myself through the eyes of others as though mine were colour blind
Stunned with flashbacks on days where I was told I’d never be good enough days that morphed into months
Months that shape shifted into years years that have now made up for the most part of my life in resonating echoes
“I’m good if they say I’m good,” a voice chimes in my head
I try each time to be good enough but they label me mediocre
Their words like sharp thorns pierce my soul
leaving scars that never seem to heal with time or the balm of amnesia
Last night tried to continue but their words
Which are now shadows of my thoughts weakens my very core
But today
I take the first step on a journey towards self-acceptance
Fiery-eyed and full of lead I am ready to rewrite the story I’ve been told!
Olatubosun Ishaq Mustapha is a 21-year-old poet who finds solace in the realm of words and emotions. I strive to express the intricate contradictions of life through my words. Reach him on IG @tunbossunn. Email: ishaq.mustapha.ola@gmail.com
This is so beautiful (“I’m good if they say I’m good,” a voice chimes in my head) such a profound line 🥹