If you live on a dung hill you livin on dung. Despite you might fight for the very top rung, the whole ****** ladder is lathered in dung. But from the top rung rotten corpses are hung. Strung out and rung out, some of em even hum, 'Dng-d-dung Dng-d-dnnnn dmmm-dmmm dun-d-dun dung.' They hummin n bummin n slummin til dawn n when the sun rise they'll hum a new song. How can anyone hung from a rung be so humble? Like flies on some dung or the bees who just bumble along to their song n keep on bumblin on to forget that live on a mountain of ****... O ****, is this it? This is it.. I'ma quit... Life's just a pile of dung and some rungs that go row after row to the end of the show where some corpes who hungrily hum.... huh? Oh no!

THE HEART BECOMES NUMB OVER THE EXAGGERATED AND THE VIOLENT.
I FEED THE MALADY AND DIG MYSELF A SELF LOATHING PIT FOR NOT ONLY MY CORPES BUT THE PEOPLE I UNWILLINGLY DAMAGED.
THE CRACKS IN MY MIND ARE CLAWED WITH FEAR AND THE AGNST PACES AND PACES.
EVERYTHING THAT EXISTS FOR INFINITE MILES WITH IN ONE IS DEAD, EVERY INCH OF LIFE IS UNFAMILIAR.
I POUR OUT WHAT LIFE I HAD INTO MY PETITE PLANTS AND RESONATE THE GREENS IN MY BITTER CHEST THAT CANT CLINCH ANY BREATH OF RURAL STILLNESS THAT HELPS ME NOT SPILL MY ORGANS ONTO MY FLOOR.
THIS OVER EXHAUSTING BETRAYAL OF MYSELF AND THE RIVALRY AGAINST MY MIND CANT TAKE REST FOR AS LONG AS THE ROOTS IN THE SOIL ARE TANGLED AND NOT BREATHING I AM NOT WILLING TO SHARE ANY COMFORT.
THE LIFE THAT WAS ONCE IN FIELDS OF MIDDLE AMERICA ARE GONE AND I MISSED SO MUCH JOY I SOAK IN THE BITTER TAKE ON THE 2016 WINTER.

Dear Nigeria,
Let me, at this juncture, pose my pen on the marble of innocent souls.
Let me, at this point, peruse the world of broken bones and listen, attentively, to the melody of lyre.
This poem is an elixir.
It has no beginning; it does chant the panacea to global pandemonium.
This poem is a remnant of Borno's corpes—
And that of other bleeding States.
This poem has no ending.
Its components were chosen from the archives of history.
This poem speaks of the civil war and the state of the nation, every now and then.
It does enunciate the heartfelt of the stars' constellation.
This poem is pregnant and, it won't go on maternity leave until the dogs in the neighbourhood stopped barking in my compound.
Until peace is restored on the entirety of the soil of our fatherland.
Until all roads are— without fear, anxiety and instability— usable by our travellers...
Until then, this poem will speak zillions to a layman.

And so to rest my tired eyes on hills far away from my battle cries ,
where  love and hope their pastures rise ,
and so to sleep and rest my case ,
the fall of man their human race ,
that life should be but twice the pace ,
that my dreams whenst I awake
should ever be fortold ?
A porpers tale  that i should take a crumb of bread from my masters plate

For my bones are tired , and the birds that once found their nests     
in my ribs  
have Taken to flight a long time ago .
And  so ,
now rats naw on my morbid friend ,
and nettle and daisy are my corpses new. guests
to reclaim what man once called his own ,
that man should be but skin and bone!



For grave lies cold it’s chambers bare ,
but alas I have a saviour who does not lie here ,
where decay and rotting flesh may not be found ,
somewhere with mansions built on holy ground .

Somewhere far away from this place for when my body with rigomortis lie ,
and underground catacombs their corpes still!
unmoved unbowed unto this earths decaying will .

And soon the ground in which I lay will be built apon
in brick and hay ,
and I shall be forgotten one sunny day ,
And aye I cast my cap to him a porper  bring a crown to honour
My heavenly King