The Last Offering


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I come, to the void of myself often
It is the soul of my solitude
It is where all the curtains are drawn

And I am in my own privacy, in touch
With something of the divine
I go there like an escape from the outside world

It is my heart of subjectivity
And I do not find it at all terrifying
It’s a splendour to own such a place

A piece of art, an order of nature
The soul built by spiritual suffering
A palace of mysticism who could understand?

What to an artist is their dream
To the cruel world how futile and juvenile
But we all require a soul to function

* * *

A spirit to push us through those terrible nights
Where the world is truly against us
And we are abandoned by friendship, love, profit

How many days of my life have I slept there
Alone, for that is the self-indulgence of
Risking and of striving illicitly, stubbornly

Against the peer pressure of such a conforming world
That cares for profit, reproduction, tradition
Perhaps we are not all made for that, I do not know?

But friends do leave and a dull pragmatism does
Set in, like the idea of responsibility for ordinary things
As when mates leave us for our idealism

I would have imagined it would be a virtue
But what if in all of this, the world is wrong?
And my soul is right, and I am doing what

I was meant to do all along, how shall I forgive myself then
For squandering my talent in subjectivity
And loving my own doom through it all

* * *

There is no room in this world for poets
So perhaps we shall do it as if in secret revolt
The revolution is always born inside

I need no solace from existence, only
My divine food, my guise of dream, my birthright
Of sacred psychology, that is why I write

It’s not a delusion nor in glowing pink afternoons
A mistake I made in being who I chose to be
It’s my exercise in the cosmos and empathy

It’s my last belonging to simplicity
It’s me mimicking all I thought was beautiful
To be grateful for a moment, together
With silence, whiteness, bareness, authentic authority.

New Instagram


To all my loyal friends on here and faithful readers, you know who you are. Can you please add me on Instagram, I want to follow you guys on there.

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This is my current handle: https://instagram.com/iamwuji/

The Crown of Literature is Poetry


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It’s the end, and we’re all set
To become stories, information
Some live the poetry they cannot write
While I write the poetry I cannot live
As a slave to the poverty
And the empathy that comes from

Knowing the downtrodden
Poetry is a fire that lives inside of you
Like an artistic expression of faith
Beginning in delight and ending in wisdom
Pleasure never has so much truth as this

I’ll open all the doors, I’ll review
All the possibilities, and there will still
Be more to write, that’s the universe
Swimming in our minds, that’s a jewel
Of the cosmos, stationed in our hearts

And you won’t find poetry anywhere
Outside yourself, unless you
Bring a bit of your soul
The secret inspiration of the stars.

I am the Last Poet


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I am the Last poet
And an echo asking a shadow to dance
I am the freedom between vowels
As empty as the light between darkness
I’ am the poetry everywhere, been to each
Carried burdens like the weight of time
And it’s been a beloved journey
With dream herself as my riches
I have not sought more, asked for things
We are masters of the unsaid words
And we must discover them, less we
Lose the ability to identify with this world
Nature is art and human beings are mere animals
The human heart has increase
I wake up every morning determined
To become transparent in poetry’s whiteness
Blank and beautiful as an empty page.