Poem

I love mine. Have a couple of them. 

Wole soyinka's Telephone conversation grips me everytyme, and of course one of mine "my folly"

Invitcus: William Henley

Short and sharp and motivates me like hell.

Still I Rise      
by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.



Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.



Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.



Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?



Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own backyard.



You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.



Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?



Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.



Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

STILL I RISE. GREAT AND SOUL-STIRRING POEM.
DENIS BRUTUS' NATION BUILDING POEM?
WHY NOT GOOGLE IT?

I CAN'T STOP ADVERTISING MY PAL: DIARY OF A BOOK

“I have seen your book,” Fadugba my course-mate enthused.

 

“Really? Where did you find it? You know Severin and Tankard is very expensive”, I said referring to a popular textbook.

 

Fadugba looked at me as if I deserved a hard knock on my big head. “Don’t give me that crap. You know what I meant,” he began again. “Everyone’s talking about it; that book: Genesis – An Anthology of Poems. It’s a nice, man. Keep it up!”

 

“Thanks. But the book isn’t mine!” I said, pretending to be serious.

 

He looked at me again - this time looking very furious. My mischief! He opened his mouth but changed his mind. He pointed one of his fingers at me, nodding his head for several seconds. He paused; opened his mouth again and said: “Now I know you have a mental block. If the book isn’t yours, then whose?”

 

I smiled at him sheepishly. As I opened my mouth to answer him I got a heavy smack on my back. Who could that be?

 

“Hi! What’s up guys?” the young man who smacked announced from behind, as I struggled to keep my balance. His name is Bola.

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i can't just stop reading my poems seriously,