Poetry: Nausea!


I feel a little off
randomly upturned,
my stomach talks
when I walk
or when I run
or when I’m in a car
my head spins
A tyre wheels
round and round
I travel sick
sick and blue
Blue skies down
Queasy growls
My hands tried to hold
the spinning wall
my nose picks
thick gas or fuel.
The fuel can pain
and nurse my brain
it rearranges my space
with a dizzy pace.
My mouth repels
and feeds the ground
My stomach leaks
and make me weak.
I can’t stand again
so I sit
and maybe lie.

This revulsion starts
when I’m in a bus
traveling home

I hear the knock in my stomach
And open the door of my mouth.
I belch an angry stench.
My innards all jump out
I try to push them back
The knock gets louder
I open my mouth again
And they empty their cans.

I clear their trash
I clean with a rag
I fall to my knees and grab my stomach
I feel the burning temper in my head
I grab a test pac
I drink some water.

I grab a piece of ginger
And vote for a peppermint.
I wear an acupressure wristband
I await a testament

Could i be pregnant?
Could i be poisoned?
I thought for a second
They could be more
I grab my bag to dispel my aggression
I reach for my keys like they were my drugs
I jump out the door to kill my depression
I hear the knock again, and my mouth’s doors open.

A drop of milk in
A drop of coffee
Or in a drop of tea
Milk tickles
The little wormy in my belly
Milk tickles
Milk pinches
Milk angers
My gut
My eyes widens
Phlegm thickens
I swore
The white hands of milk
Wants me dead

Omolola J.
It started with a foul odour,
Then my stomach churned,
Next my face was scrunched you,
And the saliva piled.

So I spit and spit,
Gaggle my mouth,
And tried to think happy.
But the feeling stayed.

It started off slow like a drizzle,
Then light showers,
My tummy walls shook,
Then came a volcano.

My mouth caved in,
Then my body gave,
It roared in anger,
And it splattered.
There goes my morning meal,
Then a hallowed feel.

I feel nauseated by
The smell of beer
The smell of burukutu and apeteshi
The smell of okro when cooked with dawadawa
The smell of onions sliced in egg sauce
The stench of garlic which cure is worse than the ailment
The smell of bad breath
The smell of a belch from an overfed full grown
Most of all
The smell of politics

I smell fresh flowers, it tastes like drool
I see steaming served food, it tastes like puke
I walk away and float to the bathroom, but
I find myself at my mind’s worst limit

I hold the world within me
but the wars rage on for blood
I speak the truth in honesty
yet my guts won’t yield

Just when I think my enthrals is set free
I lose myself at the edge of a precipice
I pick a stone while walking back
still this sickening pit won’t yield its hold of me

He used milk
He added veggies
He mixed minced meat
He crushed garlic and ginger,
He laid a thin dough atop,
He grated some cheese,
He added sugar instead of salt
And gin instead of water.

He made a casserole of disaster.

Hijab Gurl

Click Next To Continue Reading This Post

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

About us

Everything you’ll find in our literature are products of our thoughts, experiences and challenges. Search for a theme that interests you, read and tell us what you think about it.



Latest posts

May 16, 2023
February 12, 2023
February 12, 2023