WHY FEAR DEATH (BY: JOSEPH SUCCESS)

Why fear death when life in itself is damned

Speaking evil of death when it is our final resting place

Both the rich and the poor will share

A life of fulfillment and equality

And the noble lords shall be dressed same with the pauper

Brushing shoulders as they are rushed into eternity

Of fabled damnation or eternal rest

But who cares for this life

When each day reminds you of your final succor

Death in itself

Why fear humans when you are one

Standing on two legs with tails shaped into buttocks

Terrorizing creatures so far named animals

Using them for meat while condemning their tastes

Caring not if they have souls for reckoning

Giving them no chance to repent of their animistic sins

What happens if their blood should cry against you

And your fellow two feet standing humans eats you

Sharing your body parts over a camp fire

While in death you termed them cannibals

Forgetting that you once preyed on four footed animals

Why marry when you can leave alone

Doing things the way you want

Priding yourself as the lord of your decisions

Lying on the bed with a self fulfilled smile

Yet loneliness still creeps to your heart

Which neither prostitutes nor masturbation can take off

A partner being the ideal solution

Coming into your life and turning it around

Complaints the order of your peaceful day

But who are you to say anything

Your life is no longer yours

Wait patiently for death to make you fulfilled

Why fear death when life in itself is damned

And the only hope rest in a keg of palm-wine

Drown that fear and face life headlong

Making necessity the father of your inventions

For death is the continuation of life in silence.

WRITTEN BY:  JOSEPH SUCCESS

EDITED BY: Moses S. Olarotimi

Author's Info: PROFILE

                                                           

                                                         All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers.

TRUE FRIENDSHIP (by OYEM GARY EMEKE)

I sit here today, thinking
of dreams we've had, and days gone by
Wondering if my world would be so beautiful
if I hadn't looked into your lovely eyes


Spent all dawn thinking of the merriment we've had
  sitedunder thy glowy shades
as the chilling west-wind
whistled past


A great companion you are
even when the lake seemed gloomy
your beauty kept us company
majestic and serene
juicy as the fairest of maiden's breast
your gaze ruptures d hardest of hearts n embrace, a guide through the
loneliness of night..


A companion you've been
my only dual guide
my mentor, and
waitful friend.


Written By: OYEM GARY EMEKE (NEGRO)
Edited by; Moses S. Olarotimi

Author's Info: PROFILE








                                                      All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers.

PLAY STATION 7; MY NATION (by YUSSUF QOYUM OLATUNDE)

Isn't God the game owner?

He holds the game pads always in his fist,

human shock-wave, controlling with analogue,

as far as I know, the best arcade he loves is 'Here',

our game is of mission and adventure,

here is where fiction turns fact,

game characters suffer; the player being fatter.

  The first pad lies in the hand of enlightenment,

civilization almost spree our lives for free,

it controls our step, its praises we yel'd,

in the game menu looms helping object,

the likes with which it splits our milk,

customs and inventions,
fashion and lifestyle,

objects at helping plane,
hence it blocks our way,

yet we seeketh for;we pray.

  The twin pad lies in the hand of the rulers,

ruling in dimension, controlling different mission,

they purport us to make believeth their moves,

jilted-we were miscontrol'd, after our support,

nearly damage were the pads, out of misuse,

after lifelines were wasted, they go for a re-do,

we only beseech for control,
by the Holy Comptroller;

the game owner.

  The game plan is a way to success drive;
through the controller,

on the drivers seat; their you are,

deliver us from our horrible past.

  On the northern pole of the game planet,

hides a bunch of nitwit exchanging pads,

behind them were gross of followers,

 ready to take over,

a dreadful arcade they engulfs,

 spiritually engross'd,

explosives were project'd to monasteries,

cult scholars were kill'd,

underworld gates wide open,

free passageway,

people strive to defy,

heavenly rays shone,
appear'd in beams,

characters hate the realm,

comptrollers were laughing and popping,

the control'd were weeping,

their legs were tired,
eyes swollen,

after losing main amulet,

even limited game features,

left to meagre diets,
light off please,

quickly; rapture.

  Hail the hybrid players of the south and oily poles,

atleast they did a great deal,

money vault of the planet,

or we station'd our bank in their purse,

they griev'd, cried;

Our habitat were like toilet,

we've been cheat'd',

heaven was promised to them,

then their controllers disconnect'd,

believe me, they regroup'd,

purchased a wireless pad,

they drive'd from afar,

setting our plans apart.

  See the amperage of our electric game,

watch the screen;

many with pails of wails,

half fill'd; holy shit!

Their game plan is on demo; no controller,

wandering till I might call,
solely solitude,

needn't you to wisen up;
apply aptitude.

  Ample proofs witness'd our gluttony,

we held different controller, direct our game,

yet many surburban brats loot away our fame,

fear shall be mortgaged for courage,

whilst dream encouraged,

inferiority shall depart the coward,

before the game is OVER.


By: YUSSUF QOYUM OLATUNDE
Edited by: Moses S. Olarotimi

Name: Yussuf Qoyum Olatunde,
Nickname: Multiintrinsic,
Pen name: Wizard Calidad,
D.O.B: October 24,
Mobile No: 08073596948,

Author's Info: PROFILE




                                                         All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers. 

ANOTHER LOVE SONG by UTAMAZI DANIEL

In you,
i see a virgin land
so fertile and pure

in you,
i see the wealth of Africa
the perfection of Gods' hand
gleaming in earthly saint

in you,
I'll sow my seed
I'll give it light
I'll give it life
and weed it weeds
at night or day

I'll carry your heart
and sit on the pavement of love
to watch my seed grow
to watch it sun glow

it fence shall be made of rose
as in heaven's eye they'll pose
spraying across dales and mountains
like grains
In you
my black gold
I'll sow my seed
in your virgin land
I'll brew my kind.

Written By:                UTAMAZI DANIEL ( armour )
Edited by:                  Moses S. Olarotimi



                                                          All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers.

RAPED AND RIPPED (By: Nnaemeka Chukwukezie)

 

 

 

 

 

  Almost prepared, we came
Fervent, willing, young
At last, Almost impaired
Raped, ravished, torn
A scorn for tale

Waterloo of tears
Such gain fall vain
Pants drenched of blood
Surely, the stronger was met
On leaving, Scathed were we

Yet we sang
Not of victory, rather patriotic
We were received
Not of triumph, rather ovation
Our lights, shinning dark

 By: NNAEMEKA CHUKWUKEZIE
Edited by: Moses S. Olarotimi

Authors Info: PROFILE


                                                     




                                                       All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the written permission of the publishers.