Your sitting in the cabin of woods, far from old sighs and tribulations.
Like saliva, your current dame forms through a process of aural nothings on the couch most adjacent your heart.
The cabin is attempting its second suicide this month; burning itself from the inside, kitchened soul, out.
The dame says nothing but thats not what you need.
Your needs exceed the gritting anger of blue and orange flame.
You feel the delicate hairs of your foot dissolve from these blues and oranges; the horror of human carbonation is a 90 year rainbow.
The dame says nothing but thats not what you need.
You need the dame to cough up bricks and sea of vocabulary that bring you back to your nostalgic rave.
The mute dame is louder than the fire and this is your current muse.
Your most current scar tissue to be.
The fiery cabin will bend around you like bark, and this is what you need.
This is the blanket you've been waiting for.

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

THIS HOUSE IS NOT FOR SALE

This house is not for sale-
beware of my kitchened wife,
beware of Emeka, my son
& Tobi, my Son-in-law;
even Musa, my gate man.
Everyone is a thief in his room,
everyone  is a saint outside his room-
Trespassers will be persecuted.
Behind the closed doors are unscripted scenes of scenery stones of miscreants
hanging their tainted memories on the
eyes of souls to take away their vineyard.
This land is not for sale,
Politicians are here;
*** bellied looters are here holding selfishness as the right hand of God.
Yesterday,
100 soldiers died laughing out their skulls-
the politicians keep mute hoping to see
the spirits of the soldiers  return home
to defend the country from buyers.
We are not selling this country to get paid, beware of 419-
This is military Zone,  keep off.
We are preserving  it in the stomach
of the Leaders.
How long do you hold your house in your body?
How long do you have to sell to make that profit that never existed?
From the fireflies of the boundless rainbows,
We would hold resistance of greed into being tying itself like the dog of wisdom.
This house is not for sale, buyers,  beware,
The C of O is with the righteous politicians,
God has learnt to save their tainted freewill  on his palms.
He could not find a way to punish them in hell anymore.
Do not allow other lips to hold onto this saying.
the road on the tongue of this house
has led me to places:
to be a politician & extort from the poor masses
& to lead them astray into oblivion of darkness.
Days are gone when we see moon in
the smile of the sun that peeps through
the window of this house...
Do not come home to this house anymore,
Its no longer has your loved ones in it.

©John Chizoba Vincent
#LiquidPoetry.