****



Cordinates reads, Someplace in "West Africa," Drone confirms-
Not a life-friendly zone, "Shithole," West makes the reference.
They say her streets ain't smiling, that
She faces abject poverty, so,they wear frown faces and party at the subject... forgetting she's still trying to grow. She, seem a killer beans environment, Nigerians, seem like angry beans, While The world buzz over her Like some bees. See, when "bees meets beans," and it's chemistry-catastrophical as-
The hypocritical West tears her apart. Spits... That says, she's LovePeddler, this says, she's thief, they say, she' corrupt. So, I say nay! Give her help, give her love, she's your Sister, But, she's black, they protest, and I say, I see not what color gotta do with it. She's Ape they concluded...
But, Charles Darlwine, said, we all came From Ape, Even though, not true... And last time I checked, Darlwine, was your brother. Ain't we all "hominids" by his false findings. Need I say more. But They argue she's broken, yes, to that, say me yeaa!... Every broken could be fixed.
She's broken, but she could be fixed. Give Nigeria, a chance to grow.

****

Open

Still open

If as a fiction or story writer, you can't create an unforgettable character, then, there's a problem:
No unforgettable characters, no addictive books, no addictive books, no Audience, no Audience, no money, no money, you go to the zoo, and feed on straws.


-Cyrus O. Jesunifemi

Open

Still open

PENCIL (Prose Poetry).

Well... I’m used to the snap!!! That sound, it’s never always good, it’s either broken, and got pains, or it’s dead, and got loss.
I was once stabbed with a pencil in highschool, it was so deep that it snapped! The memory sticks, so that I remember the face, and I wish I snapped his neck, that son of the devil.
I had just one HD pencil in the “JAMB” hall, lost the led, and couldn’t sharpen, “rule says, no communication in hall... so, I sat me still through it all like I was never in the hall, and in the end, my failure was “HD.” I was snapped, after “AD.”
Looking at the youths nowadays, them eyes like a pencil line, and all blue tongue, you'd think they're all chemists, abuse of drugs knows no boundary, we live in era, society where them ladies are like pencils, many get broken in between, many  sharpened again, and again, and again, until they're finally sharpened and blunt out, they snap! In the end, they all snap!!!
Appreciate the life that you have cos you didn't earn it, and the distance between having and losing it, is like a pencil line, death and life has just a pencil line in between, don't be deceived, life's as thin as a pencil line. 
It’s all comparable to a pencil, cos in the end, they all snap!!! It’s like a pencil, it’s a pencil, and it’s so sad...



©Cyrus O. Jesunifemi

Where's your creative side?

Still open

INDIVIDUAL REVELATION OF DICTION: Because, until you see it, you don't understand it, and if you don't understand it, you don't have it

POETRY ISN'T DEAD


Shakespeare once said,
"Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die...
So do our minutes hasten to their end..."

Unbeing dead isn't being alive,
Said the man, Cummings.
So, they say poetry' kicked
The bucket,
That,
Eventually, it died.
Little did they know
That until an ear of corn dies,
Alone it abides,
But, ti's such death that yields poets... Such is the mystery
Of the life that passes on.

"Poetry isn't dead,
Poetry is passed on..."
It's "being,"
Rather than "unbeing,"
And me being "the being,"
I took the baton.
"Poetry isn't dead,
Poetry is passed on."



Cyrus O. Jesunifemi

Open

. Open

***

TEARS

Sipping on my gin
And the juice,
Song sings
In my head:
"Cry me a river,”
On and on it goes…
Tears like a river,
As I remember father…
Oh! Hard becoming a man,
When no man makes you one,
When no man makes you a man.
Nor show you one.
Broken…
Tears…
like a river,
As i remember father.


© Cyrus Jesunifemi.


***

LAMENTATION OF BETRAYAL

Clears throat...
Game recognize game, that’s what they say... It’s been twenty deceitful years coming, yea, two decades of friendship decay.
All seems like yesterday, funny how time take on wings of the day. I recall our flings, with the tits things... We formed habits, shared habits, and killed them rabbits, shared spoons, shoes, clothes, drosses, even praises. Felt like you was my own blood, but din’t see you coming in clot, din’t see you coming, till you took the ghost form.
Blinded by the love for my “G,” so, a man had to bite his tongue, so no disgust. I swallowed hard, bit so hard, was like a mouthful of caustic soda, but I must love my “G,” I swallowed hard.
Taught you how to smoke the skunk, it was conk, the pot, and all, even the gin, and the juice. Then, you’d drag and puff with teary eyes, eyes teary so that they were red like you’ve been gassed, each puff accompanied with coughs, and we were going to build sky scrapers, and drive Maybach up ‘em elevators, and park Royce on helipads. Laughed at the concept...
Your bullet found my back, but still I rise, you was just some sugar friend, ate by the ants.
I saw your true form in the light of my mistakes... dust you came from, and to dust you shall rest someday... And I lament no more.




©️ Cyrus Jesunifemi

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