What words are
But reflection of the mind
Spoken from the heart
Not always!
Embellished with flattery
Paying obeisance to the ego
Plethora of lies
May be music to the ears
Once they set in
And it’s too late
Every word becomes lethal
Shattering confidence
Words remain words
Nothing more
But a tirade
Vitriolic moments arise

Behold Nigeria my motherland
A land that sits upon the hills of many waters
A country built on the ancient landmark of heroes band
An Eagle that protects her citizens in the arms of her feathers.

A beautiful Nigeria whose fields are as green as green could ever be
An Iroko that stands on the root of peace and unity
A fertile land that is as fertile as fertility can ever be
A united people, a proud nation void of segregation nor discrimination in her city.

My motherland a land that upholds the staff of dignity and natural endowment
A land of unity and peace glowing like a river of gold across the horizon
A nation that feeds on the diet of heavens supplement
An ocean that runs through the test of raging storms un-torn.

My motherland! My motherland!
A Nigeria that adores her women more highly than the Queen of England
An Olive that yields more than the cedars of Lebanon
A land whose daughters are as beautiful as the daughters of Job in Jerusalem's land
An independent country as powerful as the King Nebuchadnezar of Babylon.

It's Nigeria my motherland
A land that rests on the pillars of her freedom
A country seated on the pearls and treasures of many Ireland
A Nigeria that lives on the soil of heavens wisdom.

** will never write poetry
His senses are too occupied
With his surround’s passing scenery
Holding them in gaze wide eyed!

** has no time to think and write
Letting so much meanwhile pass him
Not counting the sleeping hours of night
Eyes’ plenty to fill him to brim!

** can’t spend whiles typing away
While the sky turns her blue into red
Can’t afford to waste an already short day
Counting words creating riddles in his head!

** is too busy to set his mind
On begetting inky wordy ***** poem
With nature calling him to see and find
The beauty of the morn in sun flame!

My pencils are breaking-
Pens have spilled too much ink
But at least I'm still writing.
The flannel I have,
Smuggling collarbones
From chilly apartment-
I've worn that all week.
There's a cigarette burn
In one sleeve,
The buttons have come unhinged
During midnight runs to the corner
For cheap chocolate
And cigarettes.
Ramen boils
To salt my appetite.
But at least I'm still writing.
I leap from place to place,
Eyeing hoods passing by,
And I imagine guns tucked away.
The sink leaks,
There's not enough sun.
I'm high on debt
And college school books
Rot in the corner.
I guess my degree
Has gone putrid too.
My life's gone dingy and dark,
Suffocated by polluted winter.
Dark circles
Tell stories
Dreams can't remember.
But ******* at least I'm still writing.

'Young lady, why is your poetry so dark?'
I don't know good sir, it's probably because I have my insides at war.

She's an alphabet artist
she paints in words,

from a palette of adjectives,
nouns and verbs,

the landscape she finds
in the folds of her mind

she exhibits in volumes of verse.