I hate being sedentary even when I know I’m moving

It’s like taking in air but suffocating 

Unable to gasp because you know you’re breathing 

But somehow still suffocating 

Feeling stuck in a burning house

With one hand

Cuffed to the countertop

With the heat growing 

I smell my hair brewing

Like a roasting rabbit in the Celtic wild

But the fire does not worry me

Not as much as the feeling of being stuck,

Cuffed

I would wriggle my hand

Breaking my metacarpals, shred my own skin

I would chop the palm off wrist down 

Without flinching 

Just to be free, just to be unstuck

Feeling stuck

Reading and rereading the lines you left me

Until I feel prisoner to a page

A page that ought to be in the past

As soon as I rip the pages off

The cell bars vanished

I could once again resonate 

With the continuity that is life 

Then my life turns into repetitive acts

Sequential cycles and sometimes alternating

To give the illusion of progression 

A constant feeling of déjà vu

Knowing I have been here before 

I have done this before 

So why the hell am I here again?

And it translates into being stuck

And the suffocating despite the breathing starts

And I hate it, I hate it.

              —Ayodele David Adebayo

Bio:

Ayodele Adebayo is a Nigerian poet and fiction writer. He started writing at 14. At 15, he had three published poems in the 43rd Edition of the Muse Literary Journal of the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. 

Ayodele currently resides in Jos where he is studying Mining Engineering at the University of Jos, Plateau State, Nigeria.

Instagram: @ayodelwrites

Twitter: @ayodel16

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/adebayo.ayodele.507679

The post Mental Illness- A Poem by Ayodele Adebayo appeared first on Project Covid.

in the space between a birthmark and a bruise.

My lips fold into a crevice

as I pray:

May the walls not speak as I eat today.

May I not hear the baritone voices of dark shadows.

I long for the velvety feel of the trashcan;

I long for that musty alcove where I can scream my pain

into dirt.

I long for silence.

But these toes have walked through years

and can no longer fit into the haven

of garbage receptacles.

They can only take the shape of chains.

The nurses have bound my legs with fetters,

hoping that I don’t roam around like a ghoul

but I live in a body whose soul

has escaped already.

When the walls sang a song of despair,

my soul left to join them

without my consent.

And now, I’m left to wobble helplessly

like a quivering ocean that has drowned

itself.

My lips mold into a crevice again:

May this food not be served on a platter of ashes.

May it not have the burnt smell of sizzling ghosts.

Bio: 

Overcomer Ibiteye is a writer, poet and intending physicist. Her works have appeared on the TVO website and a few anthologies.

Instagram @bimolaovercomer.

The post BOUND- A poem by Overcomer Ibiteye appeared first on Project Covid.

My mind had since learnt to float in the abyss of silence,

that often echoed a plethora of thoughts.

I was mute, 

unable to navigate through fantasy and reality 

without getting caught in the web of delusion.

I wore anxiety like a knicker, fastened with the thought of failure.

My senses subconsciously conjured ghosts, 

you would hear my screams in my tears.

I will sit still, 

feeling my heart for peace in the storm,

painting images of my soul vacating my body, 

surfing above my fears, 

until I get to the point, 

I can hold my breath and numbly fall into the arms of the uncertain.

Bio:

Aanuoluwapo Aremo is a Nigeria based writer and speaker. She is currently a political science student at the University of Lagos, Akoka. Her works has been read and performed at various PIN events and Loudthotz poetry open reading. Her works can further be found on various online platforms such as power poetry, online book club as well as her personal writing blog; Laughter_WSD Author’s blog. In her words, ‘words are arrows shot into the void, they can either make us or marr us.’

Instagram: @aanu.aremo

The post On Mental Illness- A poem by Aanuoluwapo Aremo appeared first on Project Covid.

The cure isn’t antibiotics or chemotherapy

But it is a cancer and it consumes and spreads

The polarities are radiation in your head

It is wires crossing on impulses thread

It is one minute happiness and a day’s dread

Somedays, you feel fed up

And long to fix or take the pain away

Somedays, you feel mixed up

Worried about the witnesses at your grave

Other days, you feel messed up

And you understand the shame and blame

Heart pacing and mind racing

Overthinking is a parasite

The symbiosis of a silent victim and a loud cry

A single thought clings to the wrong emotion and over feeds it

Yet another thought clings to right one and tries to heal it

It’s a war and your amour is specifically tailored

You may need a sword to fight your demons 

Yet another, colours their’s with a paint brush 

You sit at the victim’s table 

But you don’t know where you stand

The phantom game play in your head

Do you deal the victim card?

Are you seated here?

Mentally or Circumstantially. 

It’s a test, but it isn’t simply negative or positive

The cure, isn’t just antidepressants or therapy

A disease you control and cope with for life

It’s a managerial duty.

Bio:

Ekawu Ukpo, fondly called Kiki is an entrepreneur and freelance writer. Born in Lagos , She is of Cross River Origin. She began writing in secondary school, being featured in her school magazine, praised for her poem ‘ Even When Night Comes The Skies Are Still Blue’. She has a published article on the lifestyle website Kamdora. For her, writing is an infinite expression and a profound passion.

Instagram – @kiki_ukpo 

Twitter – @labellakixy

Facebook – Kiki Ukpo

The post Managerial Duty- A Poem by Ekawu Ukpo appeared first on Project Covid.

Today, again, I try to move closer to death

And stab my existence.

I’m becoming a stranger to myself

Trying to hide my imperfections.

The world says boys don’t cry

When life slaps you hard on the cheek

And steal your boat—

You should hold your breath and drown in depression,

That my gender is a synonym for strength 

And men should be brave.

I’ve learnt to bury my weaknesses in my soul

And number my body in a catalogue of grief.

Because I haven’t screamed help,

I still worship pain and offer it kolanuts—

It has built a hut in my stomach,

Spreading venoms across my veins

And kept me between the thin line 

Of survival and death.

Yesterday, I was an inch away from my madness

Finding the stranger who was once me.

Bio:

Hassan Usman is a poet, spoken word artist, and content creator. He’s an undergraduate of the University of Ilorin, Nigeria. He’s a runner up in the AMBNPL’20 and his works have appeared in pondersavant, poetic vibes anthology, kalam aur kalam ‘demon’ anthology and elsewhere. When he’s isn’t writing, he prefers debating.

Instagram: @Billiospeaks

Twitter: @Billiospeaks

Facebook: Hassan Usman (

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100015124240311 )

The post Yesterday, I Was An Inch Away From Madness- A Poem by Hassan Usman appeared first on Project Covid.

Not gone gone as in dead, no

But gone as in gone, 

No longer here.

Here, where the pain is real

Here, where I’m much too aware of every beat of my ever hurting heart.

I’d be gone before you read this

So I can act up the part you’ve come to know too well

Me, the perfect, strong, brave, young lady you love.

I’d make sure to shed every tear before you read this 

So you can see my smiles and love me for who you think I’ve become, a conqueror.

Not the broken me who sits in the bathtub watching my slit wrists as my blood drops on bath water

Not the me who refuses to look in the mirror when you’re not here.

Sometimes, I wonder what I’d see,

If the image has changed

Or perhaps, gotten darker.

By the time you read this, I’d be gone.

Not gone gone but gone

This me, tucked away from the light.

Hidden beneath your warm kisses, 

Your tight embrace,

Sucking up every bit of light your presence brings

You’d never read this.

I know this because,

I’d never let you see this side of me

I’d never let you think this low of me

I’d never be that crazy girl you once dated.

You’d never see these broken parts I drag into our bed at night

You’d never discover the stack of needles in my closet

Or your missing shaving blades that now serve as the key to unlock my demons.

By the time you read this, I’d be dead.

The post Poems on Depictions of Mental Illness by Gift Oyewole appeared first on Project Covid.

listening to the tick-tock sound of the clock,

clawing at the already cut corners of my finger nails,

anxiety seeps in 

as I wait for the strike of noon

to cross an item off my to-do list

wondering if I did turn the office lights off.

There’s always

a constant feeling of doubt to order,

a jittery feeling of punctuality,

a tiring feeling of anxiety,

a compulsory feeling of perfection.

12 noon and

I’m suddenly swimming in a pool of disparate emotions,

with questions forming in apparent soliloquy

as to why life is weirdly intentional

and if death is truly so peaceful.

4 hours later, Snapback,

and I’m drawn away from my alter ego,

back to the drawing board,

item-crossed out, unto the next,

until the last is checked, then

rest.

I try to escape

the constant run to an opposite reality,

the jittery show of many insecurities,

the tiring cycle of patterned subjectivity,

the compulsory feeling of perfection.

But for a reason at an ungodly hour,

I’m pacing back and forth in my room

with a knife at hand, 

thinking of ways to escape the shadows

flying out the thick dark clouds on my window pane.

This feeling,

a constant feeling of fear,

a jittery feeling of self-defense,

a tiring feeling of indecisiveness,

a compulsive feeling of perfection.

Is this what a mental illness looks like?

-Maureen

Bio:

My name is Omorinsola and I am a poet, a writer, a make-up artist and an aspiring artiste. I am a fan of art and I enjoy creativity.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/i__am__maureen?r=nametag

Twitter: https://twitter.com/iammaureen__?s=09

The post A Poem by Omarinsola appeared first on Project Covid.

The one that makes your mascara stain your eyelids, as tears perpetuate your eyes;

Or maybe you wish to deny me that, I make you punch walls in hopelessness.

I’m the one that makes your lips deprive your belly of food,

Reducing you to bones and more bones;

Or maybe I take shape in being the one that plunges your belly with carbon filled particles,

Making your body sag in flesh and more flesh.

I’m the one that sings tunes of imperfection to your ears,

The one that reminds you of the ills you’re being met with.

I’m the one that delivers you friends in cuts and lacerations,

The one that erodes your sanity.

I’m the one that gives you plastic smiles that melt away when I remind you of your worthlessness.

The one that makes you avoid people,

Or the one that makes you erode people into your life, making them fill up your time,

But ultimately they fail you, and I return.

I’m the one you try to deny a voice,

The one you refuse to call by its name.

I’m the one that makes you stare at the ropes, knives, blades, racing cars, balconies… With a longing.

The one that ebbs out glee and hilarity from your shores, as I eddy in anguish and melancholia.

I’m the one you wish to be rid of,

The one you scream at, pray against, even beseech to be made absent.

I’m the one you try to drown out with endless outpourings of alcohol,

Or with stick after stick of wrapped cannabis,

Or do you proceed further and acquaint yourself with white powders on your nose, or injections on your arms?

I’m the one that remains solid with you, even when you betray me and seek my end,

I’m that friend that you know is your ride or die, your sure pillar.

Hello, I’m depression.

Excel Adeogun

Bio:

Excel Adeogun is a graduate of Botany from the University of Lagos. He is the author of the poetry anthology— positions. He is a foodie and an aspiring chef, a vocalist and music

enthusiast, and an aspiring model. He lives in Lagos with his family.

Social media:

IG: iam_akelaah

The post [3RD POSITION] Hello, I’m Depression- A Poem by Excel Adeogun appeared first on Project Covid.

latching onto any anchor capable of being a savior, enough to salvage all that’s left of these half doors/ tears/ wounded windows/   trauma, really is some river. 

i want to wear colours of the wind/ watch it paint every inch of me with freedom/ because each day i see my mother’s eyes/ i become part of an unholy conjugation with pain./ yesterday, another shade of purple sat on her cheeks/ and like a moribund pool, it refused to flow/ is this what helplessness feels like?/ our gazes meet and with all her strength, she wrung me a smile/ i don’t like feeling like this/ now, i can’t help but think/ of other ways courage fails a man./ in hands that don’t know how to stop this tap/ or conversations in the dark.

perhaps this time, i’ll open my spirit to finding answers/ succumbing to the blade’s song/ humming/ letting my lips master each word/ & my feet, every space in between/ or drowning this noise in water/ watch each drop carry each of its weight/ & find a ritual to make this moment elastic/ filling this vessel with enough to absorb these pains/ to weigh these fears/ to carry possibilities of answers & maybe hope. 

Bio:

Taiwo Hassan is a student of Yorùbá descent, a poet and writer. His works have been published in several print and online publications, including Liminal Transit Review, Praxis Magazine, Ice Floe Press, and Dust Poetry Magazine, to mention a few. When he’s not writing, he’s either listening to music, singing or watching TV series. His social media handles include @iamtsoul on Instagram and @symplytaiwo on Twitter.

The post [2nd Position] some boys don’t wear colours of the wind- A Poem by Taiwo Hassan appeared first on Project Covid.

looks like:

Dearest, dysfunctional being,

here we go again—sinking, falling, 

crashing, the floor beneath always 

with the giving away. 

Here we go again—dragging 

ourselves to catch up with Life,

who–despite our heavy pants 

and wails—simply goes on, moving 

and moving. Life; sprinting, leaving.

And you? Us? With the soundless 

screams and the concealed leaking 

of eyes, begging Life to pause, lest 

we lose ourselves. Again. Trying not

to die, yet dying at the same time.

Here we go again—with the inflated 

sadness, pumping ourselves with tales

of joy, yet failing to land on safe ground.

You’ll be fine, they say. I’ll be fine, you say.

Whatever that means.

By Emmanuella Chisom James 

Bio

Emmanuella Chisom James is a 19-year-old award winning writer who writes a lot better than she dances. She is a recipient of national awards such as the 2017 Writinggamesng by the University of Sussex England. Her children’s fiction Aminat the Rascal emerged runner up for the Imbube Creative Writing Awards. Her poem The Rise of the Orphans was longlisted for the Humanitarian poetry prize in 2018 and her satire based on the EndSars Protests last year appeared on We Arose Anthology. She loves to write essays, short stories and poems and is extremely passionate about using her gift to highlight and stir up conversations on societal issues.

Instagram : @chisoooooom

Twitter : @chisoooooom

LinkedIn: Emmanuella Chisom James

The post [1st Position] Hymn to the depressed soul- A Poem by Emmanuella Chisom James appeared first on Project Covid.