There are many things that can make a man to be here and there dying breathing air, dying inside what he loved the most or the things that makes a man to be burning inside water.
Thomas Edison was sent 999 rejection letters by his dreams before he got an induction letter by biting his idea again.
One is a number you must dig like tubers of yam; it’s not bad to break the heart of the wind that cannot carry tears away from your mind, to break the heart of everything bringing you pain, to break the heart of fire that cannot burn papers like a poet writing tears inside darkness to seek light and victory.
It’s not bad to break the bones of shadows that have no face of light and rainbows.
I’ve been writing to darkness ever since I was born to seek the face of light and victory.
My brother told me I forgot myself inside my book travelling through the road of lines, stanzas and paragraphs.
My lines are mine; my stanzas are bonanzas that plot my paragraphs on graphs.
I’ve been writing tears ever since I was born, writing pains, writing flowers, writing time and copying bitterness ever since I was born to seek the face of light and victory.
The first rejection letter I got was from Kalahari review and I turned it into a safari preview, I turned it to a garri preview, I turned it into a Warri preview and paid enough attention to places in my anus without light to fart a little more to break the heart of the wind.
A rejection letter is an unfinished education kept in your inbox as hymn bus, it’s an unfinished education kept in your inbox containing your bursary fee and tuition fee.
To write this poem I had to die living a lie, living inside pie that cannot make a pie chart, living inside fire that cannot float me, living inside winds that cannot float me, living inside rainbows that cannot paint me, living a lie pretending I’m a lesser poet than Shakespeare, living inside pie that cannot become fish pie, living in homes that cannot defend and save me, living with friends that are enemies, living with predators, living inside all the bodies I cannot call my own, my voice and my essence of presence.
To write this poem my day had 365 hours, my week had 2555 hours, my month had 10220 hours, 10950 hours, 11315 hours and my year had 133225 hours.
To write this poem my day had 131400 seconds, my week 9198000 seconds, my month 3730300 seconds, 39420000 seconds, 40734000 seconds and my year had 479610000 seconds.
These numbers will die like flowers before their time.
I didn’t make these numbers up they are real to show you how men die from tubers counting big numbers to death.
I didn’t make this numbers up they are real head counts of people that die every day in hours and seconds that passes you by, they are numbers of people who will not make it because they got rejection letters, disappointments and sack letters from what they could do for free without collecting a dime.
These numbers shows the dreamers who die daily, weekly, monthly and yearly because of what people said, thought about them, pronounced about them that was wrong but made a bell to ring using their hormones and nerves to the point where they took their own life believing a lie.
Rejection letters means reject the letters, remove the letters and add more beautiful vowels to reduce the ugly consonants to make a great work. Poets use more than 26 letters, more than 7 vowels to throw shovels on their pages to bury errors and follies. Vowels bury errors that consonants keep exposing.
Consonants are covenants pinching the bowel of vowels paving way to ulcer.
Rejection letters are unfinished education.
Darkness is the only rejection letter you must never open alone to read without waiting for the sun to rise.