Lily disappeared one hardened season,
What a virginity stolen from Lagos to continent America
Whore plantation there, there must be scarcity of flowers in Africa,
Neighbours mutter in their garden, Daisy gone too with the season.
Comes raining season, as Children sing “rain” rain” the soil patches,
They appeared groomed beauty of lust and vain
They must refresh men, thee desire powerful than the orb of three witches
Beware their veins, woes and diseases, flowing like drain.
Gone so wild good girls, selling foreign virus in the outlets
Being brought to Africa, they brought no tablets
And their disease come, grandpa hibernate in the forest
No herb yet, says the wizard on the crest.
This season with drops of death here,
When will your storm be over, here?
Uche Chidozie Okorie
As the sun sets
and the twilight comes out,
as the birds and squrriels are no where in sight.
As the whores and pimps sit on street corners,
waiting for street lights to turn from green to red.
As cadillacs stop and roll their windows down.
I can her the faint cry deep in the darkness,
of dirty gutters and dark, dead end alleyways,
I hear the faint tears fall and hit concrete pavement.
I feel the faint cries of whores,
I hear the sound of backhand hitting face
and brused tissue and broken noses are everywhere.
And the somber tears fall onto pillow cases,
and white motel bedsheets run red with blood
and cheap Italian wine.
And you can her the poet over the radio,
reading his own work for the one millionth time
and you can hear his soul slowly wanting to die.
He drowns himself in smoke and alcohol
the whore takes her pay, or spends a night in a jail cell,
the pimp nowhere to be found,
with a shiny blade stuck deep in his gut.
And the somber tears fall gently on the concrete pavement,
the floors of a jail cell,
tears on the pillow case and tears on a lonesome stage.
Tears never present, but are seen by many,
pain aches and pain takes away,
and I pour one more drink for the whore.
She takes me away,
and I caught her salty, somber tear,
and she crawled into my warm embrace.
I was the one who stuck the blade in the gut of that pimp,
who broke her nose and made her bleed,
with a cowardess and souless backhand.
I walk into the moonlight,
hearing the somber tears all around me,
crash violently to the concrete pavement.
The Earth rumbles and erupts with these tears,
that are shead for fellow Men, and Women and Children,
but we all look at ourselves and smile.
Happy we don't pay rent,
happy we don't have cancer,
happy we aren't six feet under;
But we still all cry,
Somber tears all fall in one big wave
crashing violently on the concrete pavement.
Now the red light turns green,
and the traffic moves along,
the whore is still at her corner,
the pimp still with the blade in his gut.
WOMEN ARE EVIL - men ARE stupid
Women are evil, men are stupid
when it comes to affairs of the heart, the arrow of cupid
It's sometimes a game that a broken love plays
so clever these women creating such disarray
Men go in like idiots, hook line and sinker
not seeing clearly hidden by blinkers
whilst being ridden, women take men for a ride
there is almost always something sinister lurking inside
To manipulate, all they do is spread legs,for in truth men are just dumb ****s
all they think of is shooting their muck
so to summarize the last statement so easy to control
such a fixation men have on that sweet juicy hole
A nine month period a baby after this
a time when women can truly take the piss
i know men can be such bastards but in short women have the evil last laugh
they will hurt you so easily with there vengeful wrath
From restrictions on kids, to doing your best mate
as i said, just opening legs men just take the bait
yes there are enlightened ones like myself, who recognize this
still with my kid a women controls me and takes the piss
Men are from Mars, women are from Venus
wouldn't it be funny if i was a women with a *****
just to clarify so you understand
i could have an evil intention coupled with a stupid plan
If i had the mind, genetics and equipment equal from each sex
i could get ****ed,**** also cry from cruel texts
i could start a campaign to change how both parties can be
i'd be the one to set both men and women free
Okay there would still in the future be a few underground freaks
would have the evil, stupid thing going on, not taking in my speech
but it's just my thoughts, this will obviously never be
one can only dream, loose oneself in a fantasy
For those who hear my words, take in all that i write
men will always be stupid they will never see the light
so women can continue being evil playing their evil game
today, tomorrow, the future will always be the same
For while women have a pussy, a sweet juicy hole
that will always be the ticket to gain easy control
its like dangling a carrot on a string in front of a donkey
they are the organ grinders we are the monkeys
Men are dominant and strong, women are subservient and weak
whosoever made this bold and silly statement, let the ****ers speak
men are stupid, women are evil and clever
to be honest i see no change, it will be this way forever
Poem by Paul Powell 20/06/08
When a man cries himself to sleep,
it is a sad sight to see,
tears roll off his cheek
and onto his bed sheets and pillow case.
When you hear his somber cries,
you can feel his pain
when he wimpers like a child who treds in fear.
No one knows what they do to a man
when they play with his emotions,
lead him on,
take advantage of him.
They don't know what they do to an innocent man
looking for love.
They break his heart that is full of love,
they stab him in the back
when he needs them at his most vulnerable moment
they laugh at him, and tease him,
Do they know what they do to a man?
They slowly kill a man, who just wants a simple kiss on the lips,
they kill a dreamer, a good man, with a big heart.
They drive a man to his bed,
with tears running down his face
and force him to dream of nightmares.
When a man cries himself to sleep,
it is that saddest thing to see.
Goodnight and sweet dreams...
All turned down to the worst
as the children lost innocence,
as the bums drank their last breath away,
as the man eating sharks finding their way,
to the over-crowded sandy beaches,
as the man turn to the woman
and gave her a slap across the face,
as the thef steals in the night,
as the coward goes behind his loved ones' backs,
as the oil lanterns spill over and burn the bridges
to salvation and paradise.
Something always happens to the good guy,
a knife in the back in the midst of dawn,
his woman leaving with another man,
he dying slowly of cancer,
or suffering from intoxication of the blood.
Poison. Poison, ravages his body,
oh, how could God let such things happen
to such a good man?
His life work, his social life, his nirvana
all destroied, burned away, turned to dust.
But with the evil, came the good.
Yes with time and time again
repeating itself in a circle of time,
across the crossed faces,
as blue eyed Death smiles
and as the girls grin,
Everything came into place,
Anyway with evil, came the good.
Indeed it had came right to his front doorstep.
What makes this world go around?
What makes Death walk the Earth
and God sit on his throne and watch over us?
What makes love go around with such favour
and strut along side lonesome avenues?
What does a widow, a motherless child, a Vietnam veteran
and a boy who has had his fare share of heartbreaks,
all have in common with each other?
They were all promised a beautiful life,
free for all to love, free from the pain of betrayal
We are what make the world go around,
I am the poet who sits and looks at love walk down the street,
and watch the blind eyes stare deep in my soul.
I am the poet, that feels the pain of a heart torn in two.
He his the poet who writes of smiles, to forget the frowns
She is the poetress that writes of her success,
in order to forget her past that tortured her soul,
now he and she walk together writing poetry
sharing their love and smiles with the world.
But with smiles, also comes frowns,
with hearts full of love, comes hearts full of sorrow,
and someone has to stay behind and write of the bad
has to write and compose the songs of the sorrowed hearts.
We are all given love,
but it takes some whole lives to understand
the dark mystery that tags along with beautiful love.
Someone has to suffer the pain,
someone has to sacrifice his or her happiness,
so another poet can feel the beauty in happiness and pain.
I am willing to sacrifice my time and heart,
for my fellow poet to feel the smiles grow on their faces
and feel love uplift their heart,
while the black cancer tears apart mine.
I will go on, with what is left of my heart and smile,
and go into my room of creativity
and compose the songs of sorrowed hearts
for future poets, like that came before me.
When the night comes,
and the world is a away,
the demons step out,
as their corpses decay.
lived a mysterious sinner.
A famous voice,
whose faintest whisper made the mighty shiver.
Her long gold locks,
made many a man weak,
till he knew her up close,
where no one could hear his helpless shriek.
disappeared in her embrace,
then moving swiftly,
dripping blood from her long nails.
She was her daddy's girl, people say,
till she hit him with a gun.
No man could ever escape,
the trap of this woman.
Courage, don't be weak,
don't let your young heart loose.
She is waiting till the night birds call,
she has her sight on the whole town view.
Widows always weep,
the young is red meat,
when she kills all the sinners,
she is the bad woman.
When your daddy is cheap,
you ought to be weak,
but she is not a dying soul,
she is Bloodwoman.
Does the past really matter?
Does it set you free?
I’m absorbed in the sin,
That is surrounding him and me.
Lost in the curiosity,
Cold to the touch.
Drenched in the poison,
With my dignity in his clutch.
Feeling like I was cheated;
I chose the evil instead of light.
I traded in the sunshine,
For what lurks in the night.
I disobeyed his orders,
I gave up security to be unsure.
I went against the warnings,
Gave into darkness instead of remaining pure.
Once my bed was made of soft grass,
But now it is made of stone.
Was plump from all of the luscious fruit,
Now I’m starving to the bone.
My curse is one of circumstance.
The punishment a crime,
I’m stuck inside this dampened cave,
For the rest of time.
My world came crashing down,
The grief has not subsided.
My heart broke completely,
When my sons collided.
My misery a token,
From the abandonment I earned.
Upon the time spent in sorrow,
There was a lesson to be learned.
Have I found the moral?
Only in time we shall see,
For all I did was eat an apple-
From the Knowledge tree.
Thou Art a Witch!
By Elton Camp
In the 1690s, a horrible, warning example we find,
Of the danger when church and state are intertwined.
Number convicted as witches was twenty-nine
Though many more the Puritans came to malign.
Cotton Mather had paved the way for such thought.
He published pamphlets which ideas on witches taught.
It was held women more likely than men, Satan to serve
Women were lustful, weak and from right would swerve.
Witch-hunting could considerable profit make
Since the witches’ land the colony could take.
When found guilty, her land
Would fall into another’s hand.
Relatives of the Salem minister
Acted in ways that were sinister.
The two girls made a strange sound
In the room, they threw things around.
Under furniture they would crawl
And then roll themselves into a ball.
“We are being pinched and feel pain.
And of pinpricks we also do complain.”
Other young women began to do the same
To their parents’ horror and great shame.
“The devil’s most surely come around
And is now taking over our fine town.”
The first accused were a group of three.
Who different from most proved to be.
Sarah Good was a homeless old dame.
Who to beg food to her neighbors came.
Sarah Osborne didn’t the church attend
And had sex with an unmarried friend.
Tituba was of the black race
So she had the music to face.
After those three were sent to jail
Others were accused without fail.
Next were women more undetectable
Because all were far more respectable.
Though true church members they happened to be
Of a charge of being witches, they didn’t stay free.
And then to nobody’s surprise,
Number accused began to rise.
Spectral evidence was taken as true
Witch spirit leaves body, evil to do.
A vision or dream was thus held to be right,
Though the “witch” was elsewhere that night.
That became the reason why
’Twas no help to have an alibi.
Of convicted, none were set loose.
All died by hanging from a noose.
Also, an eighty-year old man refused to reply.
Under the weight of stones was made to die.
To be less like Europe they did strive
And didn’t burn any “witches” alive.
People came to recognize the mistake.
That the testimony given had been fake.
Some still admire the goal:
To put the church in control.
For sure, no man’s life or property is safe
When under any church law they do chafe.
Union of church and state all should fear.
And so from that great evil do stay clear.