i created another Jaja yesterday!
a braver Jaja unlike that timid feeble boy
Chimamanda gave life in Purple hibiscus.
i gave him a gun and a mightier heart.
i carved a pumpkin route for him to follow
i made him to have the mind of his own
then, I sent him to his father just like every
mother sends their sons to their father.
he gunned him down in his assaulted plights
he returned angrily to hunt me for this freedom
my experiments to pull him down failed
and I remembered mother also created boys
she abandoned to find freedom who later
came back to ****** her in their plights
Boys come in this formless shape creating imageries larger than them which returns to
Squeeze more juice out from their dark sides.


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustration.

I don't know why a story should start with a boy hanging himself cause he was giving freedom to see life & have a kiss with his lips!
Then, the pages moved on and on until their shadows recreated another smothering duplicates of them trying to survive in this forest called life.
I don't know why every morning wakes up to see boys scattered like grains of sand on ground.
I don't know why every chapter of a story would have boys trying to suffocate themselves in the thickest quest to be a man when they can just remain children.
I don't know why each page of the same book will show boys with guns on their left hands & holy books on their rights, killing the dreams of others.
They are portraits in a graveyard called jungle &survival.
Portraits under the palms of the cruel sun
loving miscreants.
They found this soft solace of wildfire splitting between their lives,
Finding a street that will make them scream out loud like a cockerel.
They created themselves in themselves trying to imitate nature in its entirety of manslaughter.
I don't know the genesis of creation, if I could regenerate the genesis of my boys, our boys; I could have ask nature why boys like me suffered in the womb before they were born.
They leant to drive the birds to confusion before
Concluding the squeezeness of pressure
They squeezed dreams into nightmares
Cherish every nostril that flapped wings of lured lost into the cathedral of abyss.
Some boys learn to fall into the shape of their mothers
Some have the fragments of their fathers shadows & images as sharp as the streams of their thoughts.

We opened the jungle gate for them...
Missile becomes toy in the hand
Anger an issue with a patterned crystal lines,
A never ending story of circling class of time.
Employment lost in their favour then politicians came in play converting them to beast of thugs.
They became undertakers of aborted foetus.
Undertakers of dreams among children.
Each story started with their amonition & anger
Firing and slaughtering in the darkness.
These pages made them so cause the story started with their albums of sorrow and agony trying to survive in a particular senero of jungles for boys.



©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustration.

We snapped memories into photobook
Watching the edges of songful hedges
Draw  a hopeful singlet of grace of
Testimonies conquered in neglected verses.
We played from the check of honoured
Dimples crossing routes of perfections.
Here are tunes playing from the photoshop
Of our hearts designing graphics cards
Filled with affections &bubbles of love.

Portrait of tomorrow carved an amazing
hours in the street decorated with colours.
these are colours depicting greatness
freshness &braveness of the voiceful heart
Kitchened through the celestial laughter
Of a slighting mother to her joyfulness.
We are similar, singular and opposite,
We are plural of everything humanity,
Sweetness of every singing lyrics & verses.

Let's this fondleness remain captivating
boys. Sweet. Bitter. Acidic. Sour. Raw.
Reflection of the World Series of smiles
Printing names on carved pumpkins leafs
Boys carrying themselves in their shadows
Carrying themselves in memories of their
Parents' pastoral culture and languages.
Boys spinning into crispy treats of white
dreams written on the stream of the skies.

We are fascinated about the rare cloud
journeying towards the stars of our souls
Harbouring our names in a bag of colours
Imagination are doubtful unperturbed pictures
Painted in the innocent face of boys of tomorrow
After the sun bent the tremour of our rushes
The rain came like a troubadour warrior
Between veteran lips of boys who went &never
returned memories of their family portraits.

We are boys carrying our family's loss
We are boys carrying our Father's legacy
Bearing the pursuit of our fathers yesterday
Look into our eyes & see our imaginations
those imaginations created by our ancestral
ancestors for tomorrow to hold our peace.
We may not know that these sands are made
of ridges of boys like us who went carrying
Pictures of dreams that we could not retrieve.


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustration

what about the boys in Pakistan's war front?
what about those boys in Iran battlefield, those boys learning how to pull the trigger with a warning fingers on the crossroad of Iraq & Afghanistan?
what about those boys ***** in the street of Nigeria?
those boys in the act of loneliness in the army, what about them?
those boys lost in themselves in the thickest phase of life; what about them?
the boy soldiers with raw emotions & feelings & thoughts, who cares?
they lost the shadows of their fathers,
they lost the thought of their mothers,
they became a movie of suspense,
survivor's lines of remorse & yelling;
what about them?  
who cares if they are lost in forest like Kainene?
who cares about their lives like Okonkwo did to Ikemefuna?
who cares about their relationship like Inu Ego did with Oshia?
who cares...?
the ditches are wildly mouth opened,
and those boys in shell shall fall in there.
many are on the look out for a stone to hatch these shell boys 'cause they are said to be stronger.
what about the BOYCHILD?
I pray you reject sleep &think through this black pages of my tattered thoughts climaxed in horror.
what about the BoyChild endangered?


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustration

Tell the moon not to complain,
go to the sun and leave a note,
We are not a broken piece of poetry
campaigning for love and affections,
we are crystals, lest you forget!
clear rays penetrating into hearts and souls of humans that seek to make themselves gods into godhood.
we are not grasshoppers to be chopped by a lazy legs printing a falseful legacy.
We are the elephants of the forest of wealth.
Never slaughter the thought of our lives
We are the breath of humans & fire searching for what brewed within men.
We are poems inked with tears and sweat
But those tears are of our bravery, &sweat, a joyful noise made by the skin for celebration of our kind.
We ****** hope in the palms of children,
yet filled with love and its synonyms.
Our lives are the poets who rhymed & colour the sweet lyric they were made to be.
We are the boy children, the hope; least you forget.
The moon of tomorrow,
The sun on faces of a beaming girl
The stars carved on the smile of the sky,
We are boys whose shadows recreate
We are boys whose palms are route of greatness & roadtrip of principles.
praise singers in the slippery wet floor,
nightingales singing lullabies,
bread feeding all mouth to satisfaction
When heronic names are carved look and see ours rightly placed.
we are braver than earth
we can pull it up and down like a tree.


we are the reptiles that wriggle down the hill of success and roar like a beast in a beautiful pail palm of dreams.  
our fathers' tattered sins could not hold us down,
our mother's splitted fire guides our course of life!
We are the boys of tomorrow , the warriors of words hyping the hashtag of praises.
who has seen us has seen light,
He who behold us has nothing to fear.
We are mountains in praise of hope
we are oceans of mysteries and hidden treasures.
Have our words and actions in your words for we are time bomb against failure.
BOYCHILD, the sun that glows on every face that needs help.



©John Chizoba Vincent
From_ APenRefusing_Frustration.