Monday, October 29, 2012


I would do it with you
I would do it in
Different positions
Entwined in each other’s arms
You on top of me
Me on top of you
Sitting on top of you
Try the 69
In the kitchen
In the bathroom
In the Jacuzzi
On the balcony
In the car
On the train
On the bus
In the bedroom
I would do it again
With you and only you
I would not have to think twice

© thelma migue, 2012

A cizoepoetry collection

Thursday, October 25, 2012


I don’t know how to let go
I am not sure where to start
I am not sure how to start
It feels like I am floating
Between limbo and purgatory
I miss laying my head on his chest
I miss the phone calls
I miss the giggles and whispers
I miss holding hands
And walking next to him
Is what I am feeling normal?
Or is it not?
I have so much
I do not know how to let go
I am trying to be a big girl
There are those times
I pick up the phone
Dial the number
Quickly disconnect
Least I sound childish
What do I do?
How do I do it?
Is there a manual?
Is it written somewhere?
Is it written on a scroll?
This is one storm
I do not know how to conquer
This is one storm
I cannot see the light
This is one storm
I want to wake up from
This is one storm
I wish I saw coming
This is one storm
No medication can numb
Is this the storm before the calm?

© thelma migue, 2012

A cizoepoetry collection.

Don't Call Me Poet.

He wrote a poem titled it the last poet
he was in the poem era, the last before all went quiet…
And the only sound I could hear was rhyme and flow
so, maybe I sound like this in slow motion,
maybe I found my place in flow motion.
But I don’t think you should call me poet, without caution.

A little about me though no autobiography; I flunked literature class, 
needless to add I don’t have my poetic license.
So I read twice as much as I write, when I write,
My scripts are ten times better than when I spit.
Guess my ten fingers can take credit for this.

Don’t call me poet, I don’t think I've graduated.
So what if my thoughts sound like they've marinated
I’m not there yet but I’m steadily moving toward it,
all I need is this ink for what I feel, to word it
I don’t seek for you to understand this, what I want is
for you to feel me as though you’re blind and I’m Braille.

Don’t call me poet, I know nothing about rhythm,
my pace is uneven, maybe I lack lyrical fitness.
The only beat I know and write to, that of my heart.
And that’s another 72 reasons every minute
why me and pen will never part.

Written by Edgar Akama.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012


Paths crossed at a difficult time
A time when I could not see ahead
A time when nothing mattered
A time when it seemed time stood still
Like an angel
You were there when I needed you
A shoulder to cry on
A shoulder to lean on
The silly jokes and the laughs
Have helped me not only forget
They have helped to dull the pain to a bearable point
Thinking about you
Brings a smile to my face
The weight on my shoulder is a little bit lighter
In my weakness
I draw strength in you
I may not say it often
Thank you

©thelma migue, 2012

A cizoepoetry collection