Despite its obviousness,
the depth of my despair seems to be unknown.
Despite making it obtrusive,
lookers seems to be so obtuse.
Are they not looking?
Are their eyes just open?
Are they shortsighted?
Are they longsighted?
Or are they blind?
Or are these people just nonchalant?
Do they not see how deep I’m being despaired?
Can’t they see the depth of my dismay?
Do they not see how confused I am?
Or am I disguising my despair?
Is my hopelessness being concealed?

Here I am,
in this pit-
this deep pit.
Passersby do not see.
Or they do not care instead.
Some can not measure how deep I’m gone.
Many think it’s just a shallow one,
I should be able to leave myself.
Some do care, but their hands too busy doing things.
And then I wonder if they know how deep I’ve gone.
If only they know,
would they lift me?
Would they leave me?

If only they care,
wouldn’t they stop their work and come save me?
Wouldn’t they desist from talking about my plight and come lighten my load?

Oh! They can’t see.
How then do I obtrude my bitter state?
Words have failed me.
Rather, I have failed words.
Have I not been speaking?
Bitterly, I have expressed myself.
Still, they seem not to understand.
They are apparently not getting me.

I need not run mad trying to pour all,
I need not turn dumb shouting and screaming.
For all I know, this will not show my despair depth.

So, they know?
But do they know how deep I am?
Do they not see how deep it is?
Are they myopic?
I’m showing my deep pit of despair,
but they see a shallow hole instead.
I am in a deep mess,
but their eye defect would not let them see.
Those that see do not even care.
Is that an omen that I will forever be here?

But what do I do?
Do I keep telling all?
Like a preacher, do I keep repeating the length of my hopelessness?
One day, will I come across one that care?
Will a saviour come save me?
Do I keep explaining, defining and listing?
Will the depth of my despair one day be known?
Will the depth of this pit one day be seen?
And if seen, will I be saved?

Or, do I bury myself?
With my hands, should I gather sand and close up the pit?
With my little body inside, should I cover up the pit?
Should I lock up my despair?

the myopic passersby, I shall see no more,
the nonchalant friends, I shall see no more,
the deaf relatives, I shall see no more.
Buried in the pit, I shall see them no more.
Buried in my plight, I shall see these contemptuous people no more.
Their happy look whenever I share with them my grief, I shall see no more.
But what will the diggers of my pit do?
Gold diggers that dug my plight pit,
would they not mock me?

Or do I keep striving?
Do I keep waving?
Maybe some day, some time, my own Messiah shall come.
And just like Joseph’s time, these people shall come back to bow.
And my long time dream shall come to pass.
And I shall rule like Prime minister Joseph.

Just that my confusion wouldn’t let me rest.
Day by day, my dismay increases…

So much a pity my air-filled garment of grief is being seen for gaiety.
While I wail and wait, they think I play and pray.
While I wave hands for help, they think I wave for joy.

In a little mind, stand thousands of questions.
It awaits answers…

– Adeleke Rachel (Richie)

I write short stories and poems. Many times, just to let out. My pen is my closest friend.  
#Richie #theinsomniacpen

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30, a collection of poems by Jaachi Anyatonwu banner
Jaachi Anyatonwu
Jaachi Anyatonwu is a poet, editor, and publisher living in the suburbs of Aba. He is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks and collections, and the Editor-In-Chief of Poemify Publishers Inc. Jaachi is passionate about discovering new voices and mentoring emerging poets. He is also a fierce advocate for the boy child and sexually molested.

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