#boychild - Hello Poetry

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 From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.

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Apr 8, 2018

Apr 8, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC

john-chizoba-vincent

Plight Of The Boychild

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 From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.

18

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 From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.

0

Apr 8, 2018

Apr 8, 2018 at 1:46 PM UTC

john-chizoba-vincent

Jungle Boys

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 From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.

30

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 From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration

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Apr 8, 2018

Apr 8, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC

john-chizoba-vincent

Photo Boys

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 From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration

47

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 From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration

0

Apr 8, 2018

Apr 8, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC

john-chizoba-vincent

What about The Boychild

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 From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration

23

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_ A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.

0

Apr 8, 2018

Apr 8, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC

john-chizoba-vincent

lest We Forget The BoyChild

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_ A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.

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