Forlon Cry (After Miles Hodges)

The first time someone called me a writer was at a cramped party in the university.
Heat rising between our bodily spaces
Sweat collecting at the base of my brow to keep anxiety at bay
I listen as he describes me to a boy I had just met,
‘He’s an amazing writer. Trust me, he’s so cool.’

As if the metaphors I use as antidepressants and a way to cuddle my wounds
Are reason enough to get to know me beyond my first name;
Reason to pin my feet upon a pedestal I didn’t ask to stand upon in the first place.

I mechanically dust my hands
Split my lips into a half-ass smile,
Thrust out my hand,
And let my laughter ring with the music.
Little does anyone know that I am the broken jukebox in the corner with a disappearing voice.

I have stopped seeing the fire in my writing like most strangers do,
Because to them, my pain is pretty,
my heartache is wrapped in a bow so
They can sleep better at night knowing
that some twenty-something year old boy in Enugu understands them better than he understands himself.

I have spent years singing in a language I have never fully understood
because I am the boy who attaches my reflection to a boy
whose memory I still keep prisoner in my mind
And this is how I hide from myself
This is my disappearing act.

But this isn’t writing anymore; it hasn’t been for a long time.
This is a cry for survival.
This is my heart leaking gun powder and discharging bullets into sheets.

Right here, on these sheets,
is where I understand what if feels like to choke on a gas chamber of lost dreams.
Right here
is where I come home to after being at war with myself.
This is my peace;
My prayer for forgiveness.
Right here
is why my friends don’t call that often anymore.

These words are why my friends think they know me through my words and no place else.
This is why I feel like dust, like mist, like I’m anyplace except where I should be.
This is why I sit with my family at the dinner table no more,
Because why?
Why share grace with those who can’t understand these white sheets I bare my heart out to bleed.

Right here is where I pluck the guitar strings in my throat to sing like a bluebird and slow dance with every ghost.
Right here, on this blog, is the only place I can forklift
all the misunderstood out of my chest and force you to read.
And you’re still going to call it art;
You’re still going to call it writing.

But this isn’t writing anymore, it hasn’t been for a long time.
This is a cry for survival.
Writing is a sound of me using the inhale of night
Just to make it to the exhale of morning.
Right here, on this blog, is where and why I chose to fight.



4 thoughts on “Forlon Cry (After Miles Hodges)” by Rhoiy (@Roy-journals)

  1. Sometimes it’s like that. No many people acknowledge it to themselves whether they are writers, sadly, it’s the first step of becoming a writer.

    1. Rhoiy (@Roy-journals)

      Thanks for the comment @elovepoetry

  2. Rhoiy, Its ok. I loved the 8th and 9th verse, cos it had rythym.

    If you had applied rhymes, to this, it would have come out better, cos this wasn’t a blank verse or a sonnet.

    I feel ur pain though. I was once in your shoes some years back.

    It gets better at the end.

    1. Rhoiy (@Roy-journals)

      Thanks for the comment @thaprince I actually wrote it as a memoir, then I decided to make it in form of a spoken word poem. I didn’t exactly want to do any form of rhyme though. But thanks either ways, I’m glad you could relate to it.

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