My name is Moses Chukwuemeka Daniel, I am from Nigeria, Africa. I'm a teenage poet, I love writing and I sing too. My poems have been published in some online journals and magazines.
Who said poetry is not artistry?
a part of art,
painted with vocals,
drawn with lines of rhyme,
giving colour to odds,
unlike art in portraits and sculptures,
poetry flows in written and spoken words.
an ancient of beauty,
gives meaning to life,
shaded in charcoal of absurdity,
where truth hide in mediocrity,
but awoken by attention,
those ears that love,
if poetry can draw a person,
why can't it be called artistry?
I have seen arts,
i have seen lines,
i have seen colours in words,
i have seen picture that talks,
and words that portray a picture,
i have seen ambiguity,
i have seen well drawn zigzag rhymes,
and floating lines....
I have searched to the depth of the earth,
and i've found nothing as sick as death,
a man without a heart,
a man without a time,
he comes and leaves with a sign.
Oh death what good doeseth thou possess,
leaves your family,friends and loved ones in tears,
and smile becomes an enemy to thy face,
like a dream a man has no fate.
Oh death you find no love in change,
you are worse than just your name,
one thing pains me more,
the good die young,and the bad stay more than a decade,
our loved ones get an early lay to grave.
Oh! Why have thou no shame?
Why does thou choose to bring pain?
But! sometimes you bring joy tears,
and you grant some wishes to get an eternal rest,
and sometimes you teach us to get prepared,
so we live our lifes without grudge or hate.
Everyman has a role to play on earth,
love and passion is what we possess,
live in peace and quarel free,
find joy in every good deed,
for death comes without regret.
You said you would tell me a story,
When you turned and left me with nothing,
You said you would come back with plenty of money,
Today all I have is your pictures to keep me warm in the mornings.
Mr soldier i can't count how long you left,
I still see the prints of you boot behind your steps,
The grin of an intelligent young cadet,
And the will behind the arms you used to wipe my tears.
Mr soldier come fight my desire for your arms at night,
I know you are now an adept with guns and knives,
I wish you were here to watch me stare at your eyes,
But you are not near while I sob with your heart.
Your promises i wrote on a clean sheet in my heart,
I carried your words all day with pride,
'I will be back' you said,
'I will be back' you left.
I salute you my soldier,
You left to serve your country without fear,
You are my pride for life,
You are my soldier in this fight.
when my heart was cold,
my flaws went bold,
my treasury was sold,
friends turned and said no,
i needed truth untold,
change with a 'new'
a night dark and blue,
with stars playing with much confidence and crude,
i needed a friend to talk to,
someone who reads my eyes,
who studies my sad,
who share in my plight,
someone with the attitude,
with an aptitude,
an aptitude of halting solitude,
a natural soluble,
that night i found you,
that blue night i was intoxicated,
i spoke in the tongue of cyclical,
i crunched on them with much selfishness,
i bathed in the rivers of foolishness,
i was not myself,
in the mornings were mad calmness,
in the evenings were calm madness,
i felt the proximity of a friend,
my fall has just begin.
when darkness show its ugly side,
all i could do was cry,
when my heart was rough and dry,
when the desert was cool and ripe,
who cheered me up all through the night?
'Indigenes of no nation'
With agony in my heart,
I write this piece,
Yesterday was so fly,
Today I hold my pen with anxiety,
I am scared of what tomorrow would bring.
Our youths are being sold to anarchy,
Our parents now hide in melancholy,
Now guns are being presented as gifts,
We pick bullets in the street,
We serve a walking corps country,
Where leaders lead their priorities.
Boys murder their conscience,
Girls slaughter patients,
Money supersede love for convenience,
Die hard a society so ruthless.
No room for education,
No change for transformation,
No love no nation,
No peace but commotion.
They create no writer,
They promote no media,
they just control their area,
Where the sword speaks
indigenes of no nation.
With sorrow in my heart,
I tell this story,
People no longer say thanks,
But a loud sound of sorry.
The mornings once bore freshness,
The noon then brought goodness,
And the evenings engage sweetness,
But now they show resentment,
Harbouring so much coldness,
coldness and wickedness of men,
Trading their hearts for gold,
Trading their cool for cold,
Indigenes of no nation.
They are sycophants,
They are cynical,
They are onions to the eyes,
They smile When you cry,
They laugh at your plight,
Their black clothe cover their black heart,
They tell you they love you,
They turn and they bite you,
Indigenes of no nation.