e-Paper Poetry of Vinx

Home » 2012

Yearly Archives: 2012

Things I Hate About Falling In Love

Love hurts when you do it right.
The very moment I had her by my side
I felt I had gotten all I needed
Beauty, caring, loving, soft chocolate hide
A romantic angel, the affection of my life
Not to forget a perfect behind
Joy joy joy!!!

The shy one but you acted as though not
Forced you to throw away the blue jean jacket and long skirt
That hide the figure I call eight

Ain’t calling no names but she is the beautiful one
That wouldn’t leave my head
Thought about the night we first spent time together
The spinning around and
The exotic-lip-drink game we played
That was then, now I’m driving: don’t know if drunk or sober
Simple because her love messes-up my medulla.

Jealousy in love; she hates me more than the devil hates good.
Bringing up a nightmare by daylight in my head
It hurts so bad that I hate; falling in love.

Don’t Call Me Mad : Churchgoers


With millions of congregation

Dancing from corner to edges

As the choristers sings; rock of ages

-With sweet surrender voices

Curative surely is for the deaf

To the left, surprisingly my twin-wings swings

Not intentionally or by the act of the whirling winds

Nor the hatred in the tune or song she sings

But for the entire things the bible call sins

Looking through their eyes

I see ruthlessness in their hearts.


I see things heavy for an angel’s eye

Swiftly I swerved my eyes up and down

To the shining roof and floor

And then the well-furnished temple

There goes a rhythm

“Ride on pastor”


The preacher perspires right on the alter

Blessings with no curses he dispenses

The sermon he delivers has the power

“Time is near, change from your old ways” he warns

My white eye turns red

“Emotional” you may think

But the words he says

Are falling into the ears

Of a wrong parishioners


In the middle of a million worshipers

The medley of loud thoughts

Hits my ears

Not even one of them all has a clear mind

The preacher also is a supporter of no just

Dear lord I’m outnumbered.



Written by Onyeche Vincent Onyekachukwu

© 2012: https://vinzpoetry.wordpress.com




The Days In A Week

The days in a week have it all
Monday is a poor businessman
Tuesday is better of
Wednesday has her own flair
That thursday is a tiresome day
Friday is a day of party and cashout
Saturday best for romance and hangout
This explains why sunday is broke but Godly
No wonder Monday is poor.

(C) 2012

Cock: The Little Girl That Frown

  • Don’t know if I have a big bottom
    Because the ass is right at my back
    The memories it brings drags anger in a sack
    Hell yea! I frown
    And give a-slow-burn
    Without faking smile, unlike a clown
  • My memories of being a teenage,
    Has men twice my age
    That harasses and rattle my cage
    I wish I was brave or better sage!
    Pain wouldn’t have been in a sack
    But rather free in a cage
  • Black blood droplets, makes me cloud-up,
    And… Yes I frown
    It’s my beauty I like to hide
    So I give a sigh; “talk to my hand”
    And… Yes I frown
    I don’t care how innocent but don’t say “hi”
  • I have been bruised, abused and misused;
    Wish I was born the days hearts had courage
    And tongues were parrots not packed in a sack
    Separated by barriers from the ears of the walls
    Maybe my parents would have heard
    And bullets would have flown..
  • Now I’m just an author of sad sex stories
    But not a property causing cold war…
    Nor an indigestible fiber: so I keep to myself.
    Just me, left in a farm of my thoughts
    Cultivating imperfection that understands me a lot
    Knit-brows, I look-black with a rusted heart
  • Bruises and brushes of bad luck
    Steadily, I give the Devil an evil-eye
    Same eye that saw the Devil down
    Who tore my blouse and pants
    Devouring me in art and act,
    Fagged out in the hook packed in the sack
  • Nothing amaze me, the sound of the word
    … Is as heavy as the word: “Prick”
    If my milk drop please it is my breast?
    At times I wish I had powers of a sword
    To decapitate the cock away from my nest
    Smiling with a frown that says: “you’re yet to see the best”
    • (C) 2012. Written by ONYECHE VINCENT ONYEKA


    The Liltle Girl That Frown

    The Liltle Girl That Frown


  • October child is born for woe
    With the strength to dig a hoe
    And ideas never called a doe
    Creativity profound like its afternoon
    October children are blessed.
    1. 6.
  • The world created in October; probably
    Every ending of a cycle,
    Is the beginning; ideally.
    Coming twilight in november
    October is natures funeral month.
    1. 11.
  • Green gradually loses to yellow
    Every fresh ready to dry-up a flesh
    In October, the leaf falls
    No wonder, its child is born for woe
    God protects the October child.
    1. 16.
  • In Nigeria, tis beginning of a good era
    Business boom, and does the purse
    Woe was four months before
    Mellow, take a toast, don’t be sober,
    For October does his work well.
  • Written by Onyeche Vincent Onyeka
    (C) 2012
    The True Poesy

    Baby Nigeria; Birthday Ma

    Baby Nigeria, birthday grandma
    Sets of candles blown;
    The fifty-second time in a row

    Make your wishes right to fairies
    Not Presidents and politicians
    As baby you seem, laugh and smile

    The beginning of fairies
    They say, was from the first laughter
    Of the first baby born

    If your wishes got no will
    When the light goes out
    Eat your cake alone

    Happy Birthday
    Baby Nigeria!!!

    Written by Onyeche Vincent Onyeka

    The True Poesy

    Me, A Song Written By God

    More accurate than a chronograph,
    Well analysed than a spectrograph
    I’m a dancing sonogram
    Gush! The sound is killing

    Mimed by the Angels above,
    I’m a song written by the hand of God,
    Sang by his singing birds,
    Life listens that includes you and you

    Mind-blowing like deftly,
    The errors in his write-up are defunct
    Speakers boom ….
    Gush! The lyrics is killing

    Modal verbs, must, shall, will
    These songs he writes about me
    Are point-and-kill not a moleskin
    Making mountains out of a molehill

    Written by Onyeche Vincent E Onyeka
    (C) 2012

    White Cottons, Lining and nostrils

    Hey, cheer up brother
    Least it hears or sees
    The dead has done
    And seen it all
    Stood in rain
    Scotched by sun
    The dead has shed
    Blood and tears!!!

    The one with white cottons,
    Lining and nostrils
    Knows nothing…
    At all
    Happening around
    Though it might sense
    The tears of a clown
    ‘cos no one knows

    Yes… ’tis the time,
    To cry and frown
    ‘cos tis a thing for us all
    Whether or not on thin ice
    Our life lies
    As a stellar
    On the inevitable
    Dining table… Of deaths.

    White cottons,
    White linings
    In both nostrils
    Use a tissue
    Don’t you worry ’bout the issue
    This world is not ours
    We all travellers
    So cheer up sister…

    (C) 2012
    on 14th Sept 2012 @ Mr. Felix Aziken’s burial ceremony (Off Emefiele Street by the expressway Agbor.)


    Cock: Cynthia

    Oooo low class called Cynthia
    Cheap pants over her,
    Cheap heels under her
    Shape well curved, tops just ok

    Cynthia Cynthia!!!
    Daydreaming of ever-after
    Love made her hidden icy eyes
    Bright as a touch-light,

    Cynthia going out of her mind
    Crazy in love, with who? her teacher
    Old enough to be her father
    Cynthia from the ghetto, got a dragon taste

    Diamonds in dirt, or skirt
    All he wish is to skip
    Away from young hearted Cynthia
    Who stands too close to him

    Cynthia the Igbo girl
    Poor english like your poor lip-gloss
    Take not a foot to your teacher
    Sexy you may talk but raspy he hears

    Black-and-white copy of Rihanna
    Listen to the ballad he sings
    There is more to it

    White-corneas widely open
    Off-class daydreaming like Romeo
    It takes two to whisper quietly

    You selling your cheap-self cheaply
    Ignoring the local brothers
    Whose eyes catches you

    Tightly embracing a total stranger
    She’s good for a dear, If you ask me
    But don’t dare:
    Ask him.

    Oooo local Cynthia
    Chasing the air,
    Chasing it so badly
    She doesn’t get it

    Screen ought to show
    That the projector projects
    She’s in love, if you ask me
    Funny how love is,

    Chasing one
    Who chase another
    Chase not.

    %d bloggers like this: