It Was Me - Poem by Joba Akinola
The false hoods with which she adorned her speech, he wishes she hadn't 'cos he loved her.
Ignore the tense, he still does...though his feelings are no longer anywhere near as intense
As they used to be. He's still trading time for hope to his heart...that maybe someday,
Her eyes will open and see that his eyes were not closed, all the while her mouth was open,
Barfing all those untruths, bathing him with the saliva of deceit...it was like a receipt,
Mocking him before his eyes, sneering his supposed intelligence, showing him that he'd been had.
If he'd been hard, multifarious justifications might have arisen from the wings of the wind
To shield her infidelity, pad her bads, balance each instance of her lie-wiles with his biles,
But he was eversweet, between sheets and out, and even when she'd tweet lies thro' her teeth
He'd never slap them out of her mouth, he'd just comport and comfort himself and remain all couth.
Till he walked in one day from work weary and worn, and his eyes were welcomed by her on the couch,
Bobbing up and down, breasts jiggling, even as she rode, and from beneath her two hairy legs poked
Then as her luscious lips tyred into an 'o', he looked behind to see whom it was the legs owned,
His jaw dropped to form its own; it was a familiar face, one which he'd for all his life known.
The guilt burst into flames in their eyes, and hurriedly they began to crave leaves to their bodies conceal
While half trying to explain, that it wasn't what he thought. Indeed their explanations were true,
Though not in the way they thought, for he finally saw, that neither she nor he was what he thought.
The veneer of the dutiful spinster sister had given way to the sinister keister that lay within,
Trying times had eroded and severely corroded the tinsel of the damsel that lay with him
On all those cold comely moons and hot horny noons, giving and receiving all that good lovin'.
True hues exposed, no confidence could he in her repose, but what was worse it had him all morose,
Was that the body on which he'd seen his bride ride, was his bosom buddy, and that buddy was me.
Comments about It Was Me by Joba Akinola
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe