How powerful it is to be alive. (How if death comes, it won’t let you leave a voicemail. Sadly, ghosts can roam, but they can’t speak.) During the Dublin Riots, Luke Momoh died. And the country didn’t even whisper. Black and Breasted. I have the kind of life that might struggle to matter. How porous apathy is. Bobrisky in a male prison in Nigeria. How unfair it is to lose your identity in a sentence. How powerless Poetry is. Thick copies can’t paper plane, can’t paper fight, paper fly, can’t paper save anyone. That gifts can be burdensome. Handsome useless things, How magnetic sorrow is. Sometimes, Patriotism co-signs murder. How my head can’t combust no matter how angry i am. What trouble courage is. The curse to remain skin, and bone and brave. And others wake up disabled, ash and sulphur. How justice is bought with streams of blood, and more blood. A Life for life for life for life. How government bodies play tag, Relay races for lands, ignoring the souls in it. What a global superpower is. How small I am. How small my rage is. How small my pen is. How small today is. Nearly 200 days of hell, and earth isn’t warm enough yet. There is still left an eternity of trouble to come. How at the end of the world, I will be found with my arms to the heavens, waiting for the rest of my words, Body cold, Mouth still moving. Eyes empty. With Nothing. Left.