POEMS BY ME

I planted red petals on clay soil that refused to soften. Every morning I watered what I was afraid to lose, forgetting that thorns do not bloom out of malice— they are merely the plant’s quiet way of asking not to be hurried into beauty. Between the concrete lines of Lagos and the quiet of the night, I sat beside the garden rose, watching her unfold. She did not measure the sunlight, she did not ask who was watching. She simply drank the dew and held her head up high.

The ego wants to be first in the room, loud in the hallway, praised in the footnotes. It carries heavy stones and calls them crown jewels. But the soil teaches silence. The river runs low to the ground and still reaches the ocean. Ọ̀rọ̀ pọ̀ nínú ìdákẹ́—there is a whole conversation in stillness. Today I put down the megaphone. I sit with my mistakes like old friends who came to teach me how to breathe. I do not need to be the smartest person here; I just need to stay true, humble, and listening.