Category Archives: FreeVerse

An Unfinished Soliloquy


So… I stumbled across a folder which I called “Unfinished”. It’s full of stuff that I started writing once but… you get the point. I think I’m going to try posting these unfinished pieces… or maybe try to finish them, I dunno.

Anyways, so I started reading this piece I wrote in 2011 when I was a heartbroken buffoon. *chuckles* Those days were terrible. I spent a month in my friend’s crib, smoking pot and writing sad poetry.

Anyway, so I started writing this, a few days after I read a poem on WriteHisWrong’s blog. I’ve said once that I feel like Julius and I get the ink for our pens from the same pot. I read that poem and it felt like I was reading something I’d written.

So I started writing (but never finished) this:


I pray that I have the courage to do this; as I type, my fingers fight through the tears that are pooled at the base of my keyboard, and are weighed down with the burden of typing out the words that afflict my heavy heart. I write, not because I cherish reliving pain, but because words are the only way I find solace when my soul aches. So if you read this and see lines blurred in red, understand that at those points I didn’t have the ink to go on so I dabbed my pen in the spaces of my heart left open when what we had walked out.


I play some Frank to calm the ocean that sends raging waves of pain flowing across the sands of my heart; washing your name from the places I wrote it, thinking it would stay there forever.


I wish I could write an angry poem. A voluminous tome filled with words to tear you down from this pedestal I placed you on; built from the bricks of mistakes I seemed unwilling to learn from. Even now, as I type, they trickle from my fingers like the solitary tear that runs down a heartbroken maiden’s cheek.


Memories are the ghosts of times we sometimes wish we could relive. I lived the times we shared with no ideas of what the future would have to bear. No fears for the past. Not because I had gotten past the past but because a future with you seemed sufficient to suture any wounds left open when the door closed behind my last love as it walked out.


I have no idea where this all started. By sheer will, you broke through every defense I put in place and replaced them all with a need for you. Walking right through carefully built walls and tightly locked emotional doors.



What Could Have Been

The things that may have been stay unknown but familiar. Like the face of the sibling of your friend whom you’ve never met.

These things reside in the back of my mind. Unreachable because they never came forth. Never sought to be more than wishes and things hoped for. Dreams soaked in possibility, yet left to dry in the heat of my omissions.

You were the poetry I wrote about. Transcending my dreams and becoming what should never have been, but was; completely, utterly, right there.
I reached out to you via eleven digits and a chime, and each one of my senses experienced your magnificence individually. The sound of your voice resonated through ears and into my soul.
Your laughter rung like bells from one end of my mind to the other. Taking the covers off memories I thought were extinct. By instinct I reached for more.
And then came sight. The sight of you in ankle cut jeans and pinstriped loafers. Your smile left me blinded like I’d been looking through the leftover shine of a sharp sunrise.

Words and laughter accompanied us to a place where we found pleasure in each other’s company. Playing with phones and speaking in hushed tones. At ease with each other, you eased into me. Leaning into me as if to seek for comfort and finding it as your head nestled below my collarbone, your tangled hair tickling my nose. Me breathing it all in; the smell of your hair like crushed raspberries and bubble gum. The nape of your neck like earth, exotic soap and that extra smell that beauty adds. It intoxicated me.

Unable to help myself, I helped myself to the feel of you. Touring down the paths of your skin with my fingers. Meandering along your arms and tracing the perfect fault lines on your palms. Brushing a finger behind your ear and entangling your already nappy hair.

And that was what we were. A singular wonder rediscovered in so many different ways every single time we connected. Every time our lips collided we spoke secrets that could only be expressed through taste. Every time you smiled the winds filled my sails; letting me float free and fast atop the seas of joy.

You were the sunlight and I was the hilltop. You crested on top of me and for a moment, we were beautiful. Looked at with longing by passers by who understood beauty and smiled at the simplicity of it.
But as with all things the sun gazes on, our beauty was fleeting. Reality stepped in like the darkness after a bright day. And despite the way that everything could have been, it’s all changed.

Now I sit and wonder to myself where it all went. Time and emotions spent to pay for what would never last. The past is all that’s there to remember. What was once a roaring flame, started by a single matchstick, now is turned to cold ashes scattered to the winds of reminiscences.


Me… Truly.

Hi. Some people call me Panda.

On the day of my birth, I showed up in a little maternity clinic somewhere in Obalende, Lagos State. It states on my birth certificate that I was born to Prince and Mrs. G.I. Fatona around 7:30pm on the 28th of November… which makes me a Sagittarius. This supposedly means I’m meant to like fast cars, dogs, horses, bikes, water, and really passionate sex and poetry. Yeah… all this is true.

I’ll listen to any kind of music that makes me smile (I’ve been told my taste in music is good *shrugs*). I currently love reading good literature, capoeira, cooking, eating, drinking vodka & sprite, watching anime, having interesting conversations, laughing at anything that strikes me as funny, singing at the top of my lungs, and making my mother smile. When I have the time, I enjoy connecting my pen to my fingers like a leech and letting it suck out the blood of my thoughts to pour them onto the pages of my spiral bound notebooks.

I’m attracted to women with nice legs, skin like liquefied dark chocolate, smiles like freshly blooming sunflowers, and intelligence that’s geometrically proportional to their height. However, I make exceptions for the second criteria… sometimes.

I walk with a warrior’s stride and my head constantly held high. Some say it’s because I’m confident, some say it’s because I’m an arrogant prick. Maybe so; but sometimes it’s because I’m very unsure of myself so when I’m looking straight ahead I don’t have to see the faces of the fears that plague my daydreams.

When I shake a man’s hand, I look him straight in the eye and make my grip firm. I believe it shows respect, both for him and for me as well. And I like hugging women. I’ve been called a hugging machine by some of my female friends (“when in doubt, hug Panda”). Maybe it’s because when I hug a woman properly, I can feel the warmth of her spirit in her embrace and smell the welcome in the nape of her neck. I also like to kiss deeply. Deep enough to taste the desire in her mouth and etch my name on her lips with mine in unspeakable syllables.

I know I’m a writer but, sometimes my metaphors are as under-developed as my personality. See I only started forging it from scratch at the age of 15 when my best friend Remi showed me that being fearlessly me was more important than being what the rest of humanity would have me see so I only started to see through these eyes less than a long while ago. Which is why sometimes, I can’t bring myself to not stare at a person I find interesting. Even though I know it may creep them out, I drink understanding through my eyes and it feels like I can see the person’s character and secrets leaking out of the pores in their face and through the gates of their eyes.

I stutter when I speak really quickly sometimes, or mispronounce my words. Because my thoughts are in a constant jumble in my head all the time, so it takes a lot of concentration to isolate a stream and let it out without interference from the rest that are fighting for airtime as well.

I’ve been called a mama’s boy, and I agree. I tattooed her name on my left wrist so when I’m driving alone I can look in front of me, see it, and imagine she’s right beside me; speaking with that North American accent that belies her Jamaican background. She loved me, sacrificed for me and taught me. She is grounded in me, and since I know how to love and respect her, I expect myself to respect any other real woman that comes my way.

I call myself a shameless hedonist, because I believe in enjoying all that life can offer. Not that I don’t believe in hard work, but I don’t believe in unnecessary suffering or needless endurance of pain. The only time I like pain is when it comes from an injection needle, or a woman, scratching me in bed or biting my back. And, I’ve been told I’m good at what I do when I’m in the sack. But people lie, and unfortunately, when I was a kid I watched a lot of porn from evening to morn and so now, I find it hard to truly believe that it’s my “skill” that makes these women moan and when I see their hips lift slightly upwards and feel them shudder, I shudder at the thought that I may be getting a first class command performance of the “I don’t wanna hurt his pride so let me show him what he wants to see” show.

I’m brutally honest. Even though I’ve learned some tact over the years, I find it impossible to hide behind lies for the sake of protecting another person’s feelings. This is why I can’t bring myself to lie to a woman and say I love her if I actually don’t. I believe it usually is what it is, unless you can decide to make it something else.

People that have heard me sing; ask me why I never joined the choir. I suppose it’s because I’ve never been able to accept that I could be lost amongst so many people like a single flake in a snow storm and my innermost self just refuses to be part of the crowd. Or maybe, it could be the fact that I don’t believe that I should stand on some altar with a bunch of people, claiming to be anointed and singing unto God when I’m not even sure if He still bothers to listen out for my voice anymore.

A lot of people see me and automatically look to me for strength or leadership. This amuses me. Most of the time, I berate myself over things I’m powerless to fix and sometimes I feel weak but I’m just scared that things will go wrong if I don’t do something and I’m not really in the mood to be strong for anyone else. But what am I meant to do? Accept someone else’s lead blindly? I find it almost impossible to take an opinion or an instruction without questioning. I’ve found that the world is crammed full of idiots and it’s difficult to listen to a person who obviously doesn’t know what the hell they’re saying.

I don’t know a lot of things, but something I do know is that I’m a man that doesn’t always know what he’s doing but will stick it out until he does. I’m better than I was yesterday and worse than I will be tomorrow.

Hi. My name is Adeyemi Fatona. I’m 5’10”, weigh 98kg and I’m really dark skinned. I have a funny shaped head and a behind that makes most women go green with envy and keeps me really scared of going to prison.

Next time you see me walking on the street, say hi.

[Not] Yours Truly

1. This is not about one person.

2. Criticism about the writing style is always appreciated. *looks around for The Hunter and The Mantis*

A man must only give that which he has in his possession. Anything else would simply be a desperate pretense at capability and an insult to the one who would receive it.

How do I give an apology for a crime I would appear not to have committed? Is there something I omitted at the beginning of this journey? Something I failed to say? I know very well that as with most writers who carry their souls in their pens, words often fail me when my tongue is to be the means of communication. And so now, instead of speaking, I write. Maybe I shall find redemption in this post. The acceptance of an apology forged of multiple taps and clicks my keyboard makes, collated into this post and placed at the altar of my conscience for a sin of omission which I accuse myself of committing. Even though the fact is that this massive cluster fuck comes as a result of you choosing to omit my words from memory when dealing with the feelings you should not have for me.

In many ways, I am unlike many of my specie. This fact has become something that stands as both a source of pride and pain to me. But as it turns out, pride is not power. My pride became my pain as once and again the love I gave did nothing but give others the power to engrave using the shards of my broken heart, pain within my soul. So much so that I could take no more losses and I was forced to cut those losses and shut down. A moratorium declared on love, feelings and other sordid affairs. All relationships would be friendly, sexual, or both.

“I’m sorry; this one is officially on a love lock down.”

And this I told you clearly when you and I came into play. For though my needs, they may exist, I have never been one to seek for sex through deceit or misrepresentation. We spoke many words but the interpretation we came to reminded me of words sung by Donnell Jones … *singing* No relationships involved, let’s keep it strictly physical…

You claimed to understand and agree but I could see that you were not as strong as you tried to give off. I may have taught in Setting P that you were not allowed to catch feelings, but nobody ever taught me how to make sure feelings are not caught for me. I predicted to myself that you would fall, but did nothing about it for fear that my arrogance may have been misleading me. I guess that to protect you from me would have been me being my best, but my interests lay between your breasts and thighs and the sighs I could elicit when we had illicit affairs. Funny how the feelings brought about by breathless moans and ecstatic sighs can transmogrify into unwanted emotions. And so it was that you fell, and now here we stand.

I hear the tears and emotion in your voice as we speak post coitus and you try not to voice out those words which lie at the back of your throat, threatening to come out, but I feel nothing. I see the stark truth in the words you type out when you text, but I feel nothing. A part of me wants to lie, smile and tell you what you want to hear, but the truth is exactly as you fear and I cannot care enough to make it different. You’ve unwittingly placed your heart at my feet and stand asking for mine. A small, chivalrous part of me asks why I cannot give you what you want but like I said at the beginning, a man can only give what he has and I would not insult what we do have.

How can I give you my heart when the place where it once was is empty like a punch bowl at a drunken house party? How can you even ask for it when you were told it was unavailable? You haven’t, but yet your silence rings loudly. It lingers with every unsaid word that lies in-between the “I miss you” and “I wish I could be with you right now.” Maybe it’s time for us to ease back and renegotiate the terms of our arrangement. But this can only remain as it is or become what once was. I cannot be the knight in shining armor you seek. I cannot save your heart. I hope you read this and find some clarity. I hope you understand.

[Not] yours truly.