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I love to write while listening to loud music. The beats direct my fingers, take words out of my brain and paste them on my laptop screen. The songs, in most cases, determine the mood of my writing and though I tend to write bleak stories and poetry; thus the name @warpedpoetic, my music are not always so. What the music does for me, is try to find meaning in words, put beauty into something as sterile as language, direct my flow like a conductor at an orchestra. 

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I listen to Eminem for his rhyme, word flow, punch lines and his skill as a wordsmith (The man is a rap god, I tell you. You need to listen to Spend Some Time, Rock Bottom, Beautiful, When I’m Gone to believe). I listen to Tupac Shakur for his poetry, his fearlessness, his themes (Only God Can Judge Me is killing). I listen to Snowy White for the guitar riffs (Midnight Blues is bad!) I listen to Rihanna, Adele, Toni Braxton, Brandy and Sia for their voice (for a time, I thought Rihanna sang Chandeliers). I love Asà for her social conscious themes as well as the way she sings in English as if she’s speaking Yoruba (she’s number one). There’s Phil Collins, Biggie Smalls, Neyo, Michael Jackson, Tyrese and more;  I mean, music is my inspiration.

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THE POETRY MUSIC BIRTHED

POEM 1 

I wrote the poem below, listening to Ink’s Chairman Medley which was from MI Abaga’s Chairman Album. He had done a medley of MI’s MI2 album some time ago.

WAITING TO LEAVE 

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There you are, slipping off

My dreams, off my lips like spittle,

Like unhinged words, free of my thoughts.

There you are, skirt swishing, feet fleeing,

Eyes searching the sky for stars, for the sea.

There you are, wandering between my eyes,

Haunting, taunting, curling peace from my limbs.

There you are, fading, melting like a candle,

Flame sputtering, breath faltering, 

Pattering fingers leaving a rhythm on the bed sheet.

There you are darling, escaping, freeing,

Flying into the sunset like a little bird,

Like fleeting breathe, like death. 

Here I am, holding on, gripping tight,

Seeking life behind your eyes, 

Forcing words out of your teeth, 

Cursing one, cursing all.

Praying in the same breath, pausing not at all.

Pleading, tears leaving, heart grieving, 

Squeezing into concrete baked under the sun.

Here I am losing it, breaking,

Folding into a shadow, stalking the quiet room,

Muttering from bleeding lips, chewed nails scratching,

Bleeding skin itching, words spilling,

Nose flaring, chains clanking, 

Waiting for my own time to come.

POEM 2

I wrote this one listening to Snowy White’s ‘Headful of Blues’. The guitar riff was just right.

COME TO THE CITY OF LIGHTS

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Come with me to the city of lights,

Where candle sticks are fireflies,

The sun is a cigarette tip,

Where the moon is a white plate

And the world is a plastic ball.

Come let me show you the sights,

The tree carrying a boy on its trunk,

The girl with no teeth hawking her hair,

The river that makes pebbles green.

Let’s visit the church and say confession;

Let the priest absolve us of our sins

Then let’s go and sin some more;

Your limbs are long and I am as hard as I will ever be.

Come dearie, come to the city of dreams.

Here you can be anything you wish;

You can be a star or the sea, if you want.

You can be the man in the bowler hat

Or the pretty little girl skipping beside the mall,

Or the boy playing his guitar before the passing crowd.

Yes, you can be anything here, I tell you.

You just need sell your soul. You can always get another, can’t you?

POEM 3

I wrote this one listening to Sia’s Chandelier. Love her voice range on this song.

THERE ARE RATS IN MY HOUSE

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There rats in my house,

On my chair and in my soup pot.

They have eaten my rice and shat on my rug.

I see them from the corner of my eye,

Eyeing me, waiting for me to cease to be.

There are rats grieving dying rats sticking from rat gum;

There are mother rats suckling baby rats squeaking while I sleep;

There are rats everywhere.

There are rats in my house;

Eating my certificates, shatting on my school notes;

There are no jobs, so what does it matter?

There are rats on the ceiling; their feet a steady rhythm.

There are rats waiting for me to die;

So they can inherit my books and my shelf;

My hide and my lovely phone charger.

There are fast rats and slow rats, live rats 

And there are very dead, stinking rats in my house.

Music led me to poetry and poetry led me to writing and because I write,  I am here on Steemit meeting you. Thanks for dropping by. 

Peace

Original content by @warpedpoetic.