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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Mother told a story yesterday of how poets die in black penury she said I won't be a pretty poet as my dreams dance on my ink "Poets are mirror of deceit and pain craving beyond the debris of life over my dead body will you be one!" she pulled down the heaven on me! a woman is a country of many colours the hearts of men are far country we are all students of life, learning even the masquerade has a date, a date to join their ancestors beyond hold your tongue to your bosom fate knows whose palm wealth will be planted sooner or later by nature. You will be raped by darned darkness fed by junks of insanity lurking by... a teary gland shall emerge, right in the bosom of your myopic despair shall you live by your sorrow like an oiled orchestral stammerer down the street father raged holding my LLB firmly like pixels collection from a twisted camera abandoned by a loner. writers are mirrors connected to reflect this world filled with broken stanzas if my fears are not for my brothers and my sisters and for Nigerians chains... I will leave my hope dashed in the air tilt this morning with the eyes of the night, we will dice this moon for hand on the paupers animated series of life. Aduke birthed venoms last year for you Chioma made your tears red images words are like Sunbeams, the more they are condensed the deeper they burn! demise of a poet, no one seem to notice in your domain,you don't expect praises if a kingdom falls,there are several others to replace it while you rot calmly. Poetry pays but its a business of the Elites, a trade not meant for children! Shakespeare name is still carved on the body of the sky, his head still seen today. what is penny without a route in life? Poets are pauper to their testy tongue! Father, leave me to my dreams to perish alone, even if evil calls for good, I will stand as one poet and always will. let the traces of a saint be kept in peace let the shining armor of a poet glitter becoming another star is not a sacrilege Poets are not broken and shattered dust this musing muse is only our spirits; a spiritual elixirs to the clay world we are crops, the worldcover, ladders let the ways of poets be kept, we are not paupers on the street begging for meat. Yours Poetically, ©John Chizoba Vincent
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