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Mr Tendy Nov 17
Okay, let start.

Am waiting, let start.

Can we, start already.

Our nation needs this new start.

Remember, that is only when we start that we know if it right or wrong.

So please can the youth start a new Nigeria?

Can our government give us a new start?

Can our old parents level the playing field? for a start over?

I hope we are ready to take over with a new start.

This is to all my Nigerian youth.
Let start
Please let start building our mother land.

Let start....
To all Nigerians youth that believe, in a great beautiful, great, perfect, peaceful and in a new leadership of a youth like us.
The colors of life
Hide the deepest knife
Within the heart of the brightest youth
They bring them flowers
So they hide the last hours
And cower from the truth

The life will be lost
But not be tossed
They shall live in prosperity till their last words are spoken
Though their lives have just begun
They will face the sun
And follow the birds that have just awoken

Watching the world from the sky
It is their time to fly
They watch over us and remind us what is important in this life we hold so true
Even when their name is said for the last time
The sunflowers look to the sky and remember the climb
Each child’s life will be made anew
This is the first poem I have published. I would love any feedback available.
The older I get
The more I regret
Not being 25 anymore

Some look upon their pastimes
With drugs and fine wines
And with memories that they abhor

But some of us feel
As though those times were real
And now reminisce and laugh all the more
A poem about no regrets
Mansi Nov 10
We need to stop
telling young children
that their worth comes
from the letters
on their report card

Too many children
are slowly
killing themselves
trying to measure up
to society's
unrealistic expectations
Oh stuffy how you are so soft
So perfect and held aloft
On your soft cushion of stuffing you sit
Even as i age and grow my first zit
Oh stuffy how you are so great
So perfect and the size of a plate
The perfect companion
Through the treacherous
Canyon of age.

Never let me enter the haze
For i shall be lost in a daze
Waiting for the phase
Of being old to slowly encroach.
Never let me enter that haze
And remind me of the days
Where books ended in rhymes
And we played in our minds
Never let me forget the time
When time simply forgot to tick
Stretching between naps and noms.
Reminding me of my first tooth
This is an ode to youth
= ) smile
My first cigarette was at twelve years old:
under the climbing frame,
after my turn on the monkey bars.
My mate told me not to do it,
he tried to take it off me but
was too late.
I’ve been trying to quit ever since.

Soon after, that little climber
discovered cider, yearned
for something wider and
ended up with alcohol poisoning by
the end of the year.

My first stand-up gig was Lee Mack. I was 13.
I sat right at the back on the balcony and revelled in the
happy faces below me.
Ending with a slow motion impression of Eric Morecambe,
I could’ve sworn it was the fastest hour of my life.
I can’t believe I was
so naïve.

When I sat my first exam at sixteen,  
an hour seemed a minute.
Move forward to A-levels and I
was being examined in a
therapist’s office-
how the tables had turned.
Ticking boxes to be assessed and there’s no way I can
pass this test because a
high score can only mean
very bad things.

How can life be so virile, yet so lacking and sterile?

I was told I’d find myself at uni but
I’ve ended up losing myself at twenty.
The story of how quickly my childhood was lost
lua Nov 8
"hello, what is your name?"

the familiar vibration in my ears
that creeps its way into my blood
a buzz
a hum
constant
beneath my skin
when days were louder
like the crash of pots and pans
in my grandmother's house
where the ceiling was littered with butterflies
like the static from empty radio stations
akin to that of crunching snow
and the harsh grating of metal

they are the memories dipped in sepia
and overexposed flashes of light
dripping as they walk on
leaving footprints
a silhouette

it is the fear of our wrinkling hands that drive us closer to the edge
to the end
as the sun and moon rewind in a never ending cycle
a loop
right before a leap of faith
towards that never ending youth
the desperate sliver of summer at the end of a blurry december's haze
when nothing is recognisable
a restart

"hello, what is your name?"
a poem based on The Caretaker's Everywhere At The End Of Time
Pigeon Nov 1
I’m grateful to her
The way I’m grateful to friends
When they save my seat
She’s just keeping you warm for me
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