Creative writing: poetry by The Village Boy

Creative writing: poetry by The Village Boy

Born in the UK, The Village Boy is a written and spoken word poet of Sierra Leonean descent.
Inspired by the power of words as a medium and his love of music he integrates the two to create a journey through the emotional psyche.
In Sierra Leone the term “It takes a Village” is often used to remind us that no man is an island, we all need support. The Village Boy takes this sentiment to heart and is named such to remind him of his Village (be that a place or state of mind) and those who helped him along his current path.
He has graced small stages from classrooms to university stages and larger such as weddings and the Barbican Theatre in London in association with Merky Books and Apples and Snakes.
For more poems by The Village Boy, visit



Anger bubbles dramatically like cauldrons where magic lives
Trouble follows quickly hoping to make a scene
I hate feeling small so I scream
you hate screaming so you yell
My words are lost in my feelings and sorry becomes jeering
any reaction will do
It doesn’t sound it but I hate being angry at you



I’m tired
not bone tired but soul tired
my heart aches and shudders in my rib cage
and every day melts into the third
so it’s like everyday repeats
and I’ve been in this cycle a while
heartache and heartbreak
followed by “be strong” told it’s not the end of the world and “don’t worry you’re still young”
as if my age had anything to do about it
As if my age had anything to do
with my heart fragmenting into so many more pieces than two
And when my heart forgets how to work in my chest
and sends tremors of sadness through my person
I find my headphones and music which mirrors my emotions;
in these moments too loud isn’t loud enough
Searching through catalogues of voices
and an array of symphonies
not to feel more sadness
but to try and prove that I am not alone
and that my sanity has not left me
because if at least one other person
can put these feelings – that throw my heart beat into a tantrum – into words
then maybe just maybe
someone else has a cure
a way to remove this stone in my chest
and to finally inhale and not hurt because
I’m tired of feeling such a depth of melancholy
for no apparent reason.



I like to think of myself as a pessimist with optimistic tendencies so even if I’m entranced by
your laughter,
I’ll refrain from getting lost in the joyous symphonies your happiness creates
I’ll refuse to bathe in the elegant sounds that fall from your lips and deny any chance I may
or may not have
I like to think of myself as a pessimist with optimistic tendencies
so even though I can see a future
I’ll never pursue it;
because what if I’m wrong?
What if my greed means
I can no longer hear your happiness


When I think of love

When I think of love.
I think of you.
How your mahogany glows in afternoon sunlight
and the lightness of your voice as notes billow through our home and colours it with music.
I think of days deep breathing through labour,
early mornings woken by cries and coughs,
and the weight of Joy on my chest where tiredness once lived.
You have given me all that Love promises.
Multiplied all I have given you and gifted me a home.
and so when I think of love.
I think of you.


I miss late nights.
That place between words and snores
where you try to convince me you’re awake;
where your guards down,
your features soften,
you sigh relief
and finally let go the stresses of the day.
Where your voice mimics the sweetness of honey as you drift into abandonment
and weeze into submission.
The moments before
you are washed away by the waves of slumber calling your name:
when you no longer see the need to let the horrors of the waking world sit on your brow.
That place where your big head on my shoulder is reassuring
and your breathing…
falls in sync…
with mine.
I like when you fall asleep in my arms.



all we need, is kindness.
An assurance that we are more than burdens.
That we are loved.
To feel that we are seen,
to know we mean something.
A little acknowledgement goes a long way.