Grey's Book Club

Grey's Book Club Weekly Journal I'm Scared. Of the untold slavery beginning to swallow Africa, The dominant greed, Our leaders' creed, The stupidity in erotica, That has made them sell souls and destinies of those unborn. And we youths, we no get sense, So we pounce on crumbs of pseudo-sense, The ones we find anywhere, everywhere, That suits that wound,  the one we lick, there and here,  As we click, foolery bound. I am scared, of this directionless mass, Of black skins. Sons of warriors, of brilliance, no talk maths, Intelligence space bound, From black wrinkled faces, All now flushed down the anals of time, In gulps and drags of mixtures only the Ill took, in severe cases. Soon you'll be reclining in those seats, Like uncle Taju, And chidubem's mum, Cursing on the government, How we have embezzled the money, The one some people's father have stowed away, Lying to you in big English terms, Like "bilateral relationship,Multinational frontier pacts"...

Grey's Book Club Weekly Journal Breathe in the fresh air, Put your mind at ease. Let down your hair, Let it flow in the breeze. Let your eyes wander To all the beauty to be seen. If those toxic thoughts you still do ponder, Then let out a scream. Scream until the pain is gone, Until you no longer feel afraid. Open your eyes to a new dawn, Let the darkness fade. No longer compare yourself Or your flaws to others' perfections. Take the negativity off the shelf. Focus on your direction. Pick the sadness up off the floor, Sweep it into the wind. Close the door on self-hatred. Never let it back in. For the lies it would often tell you, You will no longer agree. Happiness and love are what you should hold onto. They are whom you should give the key. Pay no attention to the toxic thoughts, Listen to those who adore everything you are, and will be. Over thinking was what you once were taught, But now those thoughts you put in a jar. Focus on your goals...

  Grey's Book Club Weekly Journal A lonely trip down a memory lane that has drifted to oblivion; A journey back to when I was created; A journey to the newly found self, Or the one that was left on the shelf. My heart skips a beat when I think about it, And fear grips me from the pits of my soul, My feet trembles,  and my hands dances to the rhythm of my heartbeat.  What would I take to meet the one who created this creativity out of me? I know I am a prototype; a masterpiece But I know to fear my creator, I know to fear he who made me a living example? What happens when a masterpiece stops living? Few of my dear ones accompany me to the gates of my demise A masterpiece soon to be buried An image of perfect mastery, running out of oxygen, and clawing onto life My six feet mansion, yet a confinement to me and nothing but what made me. In this mansion they say is my eternal If I bring something worthwhile, The walls widen for me. If I bring not...