Why would an angel break my heart?

Today you took me back to a place I was glad I left. To a time where my footing wasnt sure and my ground was sinking.

Your words reminded me of a quick sand that almost swallowed me up before I grabbed onto my anchor.

I was happy to find my ballast,

A rock that won’t let me fall.

A point so high I was in cloud nine,

To live my dream as reality.

Yet you took that away from me, drowning me in a well of insecurities,

Why would this ghost step out of your mouth to haunt me?

Why would an angel break my heart?

Shattering to pieces what you built.

Opening closed wounds 

Leaving me to bleed your words of love and comfort

Loosing the battle with your thunderous silence.

I want to go back to my safe haven

To where you hold me whole and envelop me in the security of your arms.

Don’t let me drown sweet angel.

hurt, LDR, love

Golden Tears

My tears are gold

Hot and molten.

They are stirred behind 

tired eyes and feathered lashes

By the tumultuous feelings of 


This unending dryness 

Caused by the drought within.

How can this desert go on forever.

Will my golden tears cool into bars? 

Will I mold daggers from them?

Will I ever find my oasis,

My mock ocean of relief ?

And will the next tide bring the storm!

 Or will it be calmed?

LDR, poems

The Thought.

Brooding seems to be the order of the day

I am lost for words and don’t know what to say

I wish you would stay

Even if it’s just so we could play.

When the night comes and I lay

All I can do is pray

For another way 

 to throw away

The opinions that you have of me that won’t sway

Though I know your response is nay

I try not to keep at bay

The emotions that would relay

To you that I am Okay.

hurt, poems

Too broke to have an opinion.

Too broke to have an opinion so I am moving on from me.

My sacrifices and changes are naught

You won’t get past the me you knew and think you know.

You define me by the moment you meet me.

I am nothing to you but her who clings to sleep and who is lazy and has a thousand and one excuses for being exactly that.

My truths are not worthy in your court of conclusions.

I am not up for trail but the jury is out and I am guilty

My revolution won’t be found in your opinions of me

I have tried to be the me you seem to want me to be.

You unravel me with a single thought and word.

You wound and you undo all I thought I had built and walked away from.

It’s nothing.

I end up being the me you think you knew.

I am moving on from you.

I am becoming numb and my tears are emptying.

I get exhausted and broken when you constantly remind me  of how I can never please you.

I am never good enough.

I have craved your approval. Bent over like a branch every which way to accommodate you.

I am cold.

You thrust me into the frost and I can’t break free. I call out but no ones there to answer.

I am starting to turn into a watering pot and I don’t like this part of me you’ve unleashed.

I have forgotten to live for me.

I scrape hours of the night to unwind and be me.

My days are slow and they drag and it’s still the same me I get to live with.

The me who was happy to have taken a million steps only to have you destroy that believe with a simple’that’s why you are fat and eat and sleep and are lazy’.

I work hard to be a better person who isn’t selfish and I can’t remember the last time I did something that was just for my pleasure with no one else but me to benefit and enjoy.

Yet I am she who is selfish.

I am too broke to have my own opinions and I have spent them all in my book of thoughts and hurt so I am moving on from me, I am moving to a person I like and can live with.

My heart hurts too much from all the band aids I have placed.

I need to heal.


Guest posts, Guests posts

Guest Post By boss lady.



Diaspora; Jews living outside Israel (1) the dispersion of the Jews beyond Israel (2) the dispersion of any people from their original homeland.

Before I begin, let me first state that I did not know the meaning of the word ‘diaspora’ until July this year when my sister proclaimed that I would become one of the many Nigerians “living in diaspora”. Of course, I never thought I’d be living in diaspora until I received the admission into graduate school in the desert of Arizona (or Arid-zone-a, as I like to call it in my head). Just like the name, it is Arid (another new word I had to learn; thank you Google!), a desert with desert weather, desert heat and desert dehydration. I arrived in mid-August, arguably the hottest month of the year and I have never been more miserable in my entire life, I’ll explain why later.

Life is full of experiences, you learn something new every day; about yourself, your friends and your environment. One vital lesson I’ve learned here is; water is life! Really, you cannot leave your house without water or you’re calling dehydration, dizziness, hallucination, diabetes, cancer and probably death upon yourself. Ok I was kidding about the death and terminal diseases part but dehydration is real! Once I missed my bus stop and had to walk an extra 20 minutes to my destination (I had finished my soda), and by the time I got home I could almost swear that I’d travelled to the Himalayas and back because the exhaustion was incredible. Yes maybe I exaggerate a bit too much, but it took a while for me to start seeing the world in other colors beside yellow, blue and green.

Speaking of buses, well that has been an experience as well. As a gentle bred Lagos girl (i.e. Ajebota child), I’ve spent the past three years driving around my beloved city in the car my father ‘loaned me’. Now while I’m no stranger to the very reliable means of road transport in Lagos (danfo, molue and okada), it was still very strange not having a car and moving around in buses only, especially when the bus systems are completely different than what I’m used to. Google maps cannot estimate the arrival time of a danfo, it can’t even tell you where their stop is because their stops are everywhere! I am happy to report now that I have mastered the use of the bus, I know where to pay and I don’t extend my bills to the bus driver anymore (I never actually did that-well I did it just once).

One thing that the buses here and in Lagos have in common is the wide array of strange people, but then, there’s strange and there is strange. I once got on a bus where one passenger decided to uphold the law, at least his version of the law and tried to drag me in it. All I can say about that experience is “Won o ran mi wa bii wa ku”, loosely translated in Yoruba “they did not send me here to come and die”. I simply put on my earphones, turned my face to look out the window at the interesting, starless desert sky at 9pm, anything to save my life.

Ahhh the people, very interesting set of people Americans are; they never stop talking! I pride myself on being a curious and inquisitive person, but these people beat me hands down. If they’re not asking about something, they’re talking about something, whatever the case, they’re always speaking. Now this might not seem like a bad thing, in truth it really isn’t, but for this Yoruba Lagos girl that is used to people fast talking about “important things”, a 10 minute dia(mono)logue about the humidity in Florida isn’t particularly interesting to me; I’ve never been there and I don’t know what it feels like. I have to admit though that I like the people, always opening doors for me, holding the elevator for me, answering my numerous questions and saying “oh, you’re fine” at every corner when I’m confused about something. Yeah, they’re good people.

One thing I have really enjoyed is meeting people from other continents and other African countries. My favorite would have to be the Indians, they’re a very interesting lot (and they are a lot). In each class I take, the demographics are the same; 60% Indians, 30% other countries, 9% American and 1 black (African) me. With these numbers it’s not very hard for me to fade into the background and just watch everyone else do their thing; and it is very fun watching them do their thing, I even came up with titles for each group. The Indians are the silent mafia, they don’t talk much to those outside their group, they are always in groups and they’re super intelligent (which is why I had to worm my way within so I can pass the class without stress; don’t judge me). The 30% others, they try too, depending on their country of origin; most international students pass more, mostly because they’re highly motivated I think. Finally, the 9% Americans, small in number but still manage to out talk the rest of the class; they’re the ones whose voices you hear every week telling stories about their dogs or the time they spent in Europe. Very interesting set of people they are. I have a whole series on funny moments I’ve had interacting with my Indian friends I’ll share later; I hope they’re funny to you as they are to me.

Now here’s the part most people would naturally expect, the reactions of American people when you tell them you’re from an African country. When asked, I usually say I’m from Nigeria because I like to be specific, but all they hear is ‘Africa’ even when I don’t mention that obvious fact. Here are a few of the reactions I’ve received when I tell people about my country of origin;

  • My class instructor: so where are you from? Me: Nigeria. Instructor: that’s nice. Your English is so good, where did you learn it from? Me: we were colonized by the British, our official language is English. Instructor: I did not know that. Me (in my mind): but it’s 2015, how could you not know that????
  • My first time in church: Hi! Where are you from? Me: I’m from Nigeria. Him: interesting. Hey so we have another member who was raised in South Africa, He speaks Afrikaans, I don’t know maybe you speak that too…..Me: He’s from South Africa, Nigeria is in West Africa. I don’t understand any bit of Afrikaans, also the South Africans don’t like us much these days. Me (inside): oga mi, that’s too far na, the whole of Africa does not speak the same language.
  • Still in church: Hi, I heard you’re from Africa. Me: yes, I’m from Nigeria. Her: oh yes, my son worked there in Nigeria in the bush near ‘Los Lagos’ (I tried to correct her, but she’s Mexican so I let it pass). Me: oh really, that’s nice. I’m from the city, I’ve never been to that area but I have heard stories. Her: yes, he was a doctor doing his training there. He said most of the ‘bush women’ come to deliver their babies at the last moment; they don’t spend more than an hour in the hospital before they leave with their babies. Me (inside): that’s my Naija women for you, we don’t have time for nonsense.
  • Yet another church member: Hi, where are you from? Me: Nigeria. Her: oh that’s great. I’ve been to Africa once. Me: oh where? Her: a village in Kenya, do you know it. Me: no I don’t, Kenya is on the other side of the continent, and I’ve never been. Me (inside): but I never mentioned Kenya!!!
  • A classmate, complaining about the heat: it’s so hot out here. Me: yes it is! Hottest weather I’ve ever been in. Her: but you’re from Africa, isn’t it hot over there. Me: it is hot, but not like this desert. It’s humid and gets cooler at night. Me (inside): really! Not every African country is sharing a border with hell. Haba!


Well I only spent three months there; I’m back in my beloved city for 3 weeks and men do I love being here. A lot hasn’t changed but much has happened. I’d be lying if I say I don’t miss the place, somehow it has grown on me. Last last sha, there’s no place like home; and Lagos will always be home.


Inspired, LDR, love, poems

When I woke up.

I woke up to find you near

Standing by the head board grinning

Smiling that smile I love

Wearing your heart in your eyes, lips and essence.


I froze, not believing you are finally here


Screeching I jump into the embrace that’s all mine.

A scent that comes only in my dreams.

A hug I feel through the miles.

A look I’ve mastered between screens and wavelengths is mine for the taking here and now; by my head board.


A jolt of electricity from a touch I’ve come to forget sizzles and zaps me

My closed eyes startle open in shock and the only thing by my head board is the shadow of the moon and the harmattan that zapped me awake when my frozen fingers slid against the bed sheet.

This has become a habit but I am ever hopeful for the reality.


Hey guys if you are currently in an Ldr (long distance relationship) and would like to join Ldrbn which is for bloggers in ldr and blog about is, then click the link below to join/apply. Don’t forget to put me down as you referral (Sunesis).

Let me know how it goes.😊😉


Image source




hurt, LDR, love

My LDR emotions are all over the place.

Today I have decided to use gifs and pictures to express myself. Some are funny(well most are) but they explain alot about Ldr and how its feels most of the time. Even in the good times.

When your in it, it aint too funny.

Hope you enjoy and let me know your Ldr experience. It will mean alot to me. Thank you. 😔😢😢😢😢😢😞😊😊.


sometimes it feels this way when it seems its all falling around my ears and his.  ‘we can fix this!’


Musings, Silence

Silence (Intro)

The followings post(s) under this Menu are original works of Sunesiss( Atomic Words.) They are a mix of fiction and the reality of the people I see, meet and live with.

Welcome to the stories of the unheard.

By January of 2016 a platform will be provided for those who want to volunteer in one way or the other or donate anything to the plights of people who’s identities I can’t reveal only with permission, but will finally be heard through this medium .

Feel free to email me if you have any such stories, questions or inquiries.

hurt, LDR, poems, poetry

These words….Sorry?

I try to write,

Write the words in my heart

Put my feelings to words.

Every time I try,

I come up short.


You hurt me

So many broken words my pen cannot make them whole.

They’re there in the air floating through my breath

I reach for them and they evaporate.


I see them in the water

Drowning in my tears

I dive in only to choke on them.


They’re smudged and stained.

Broken and scattered.


I try to write but my fingers cramp with the effort.

I try to speak but my voice won’t pass the words lodged in my throat.


These words are all I have but even they won’t do.

I wrapped them around you like a blanket.

These words were our cocoon

But these words won’t do any more

These words are no longer enough

You hurt me and took the words away


What can we say to make it better? Sorry……. Sorry?

Images found at:-