There is a poet
He lives in me
I am his host and his prisoner –

He is not married to my wife
He is not related to my family members
He does not come from my country
He does not work for my employer
He is a recluse
A hermit
Who lurks sometimes seen sometimes unseen
In the waters within my heart
I heard his name
They called him Spirit.

He looks at me
With his burning eyes
Only when he has something to say
Then, calling my name, he commands:
“Pen, write…”
And I write.
And that’s all I know about him.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.


The pen is mightier
Than the sword
If only writers knew
The meaning of this word
Going forward, going backward

Those who seek vengeance
Through the use of the pen
Are writing their own sentence
Regret won’t heal the pain

Regret won’t heal the pain
My friend
So tread lightly in the rain
And softly sing

And softly sing
For when the verse is over
You’ll be the one to compose again
A new chorus to start over

And when you live again
Your life will be a book of stories
And everything you wrote
Will line your path with pain
Or shame or gladness or glory.

Some kill themselves by the sword
But most commit suicide by their own word.
Some live by the sword,
SOme die by the word
And vice versa.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.