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Voice of the youth

The elderly people will say,
The young people are slay,
Too young and so childish
To me that is not an issue
But a damaging piece of evidence
Of the way they are thinking
How old they’re becoming.

In the office yesterday
Where I get pay, pray and play.
An NYSC member walked up to me
Mid age range twenty to twenty-five
Wrinkled, talking like seventy-five
Lacking alertness and anticipation
I laughed all through his conversion…

Not because it was shallow alone
Not because he disregarded a phone
Not because he was poor mentally
Not because his words are my enemy
But because I wish to remain young
To see how this fella’s song
Will be, when he is actually seventy-five.

I am Vincent Onyekachukwu Onyeche


I die hard

I go barefoot on the sharp blade of a knife,
Engaging in a fight against the odds of life;
Enjoying breath; lifelong borrowed wife.

My red blood flow forth suddenly in rush,
It excruciate pain; in loudness-cum-hush;
It frighten me; that I gazed up to church.

Scrawling to crucifix, with a rapid breath
Dazzling beats, but as I’m about to quit;
Drops of lost energies in me, refuse defeat.

From no where cometh a mild wet tongue
Rehydrating my kidney, that laid on a rug; 
Regerminating hope that is thick and long,

Reviving my metabolism, back on my feet,
In front of sticks, stones and a combatant;
I die hard! When it comes to push and lift.

This Apple

I’ve got a shape that wiggles and waddles
Same oldies, same old, Mabel and Mable;
Hot and captivating in the bible of apples
Read meaningfully on a beautiful flat table.

I’ve got a shape that fetches the babbles
And tonnes of senseless tweets that twaddle
On lips connected by cables and gables
Longing to chew my delicate apples.

I’ve got the tip of the diddle, don’t gamble
With or without my hand in an open fiddle
For I know, that away you shall piddle
Soon after deflowering my fruitful apple.

I’ve got a shape of an apple gathering a huddle
But that doesn’t demean I should flirt and mingle
Neither does it define; I mustn’t be single in a jungle,
This apple is but an hourglass at my own middle.

Boys will always stare towards the saddle
I often tremble but hope they get the riddle,
That this apple is an hourglass at my middle
Not on theirs or theirs to manhandle.

Dear Scientist

Dear Scientist
You will be odd
Without his light..

Might makes right
Don’t against God
Pick up a fight,

He controls breath;
On his hand
Lies life and death.

Rivers of life

When sailing
In the rivers of life,

Expect it all
A wind for a sail

Smooth and rough
Comes a tide in life

Let no antics
Kill your plights

Know that, none can curse
The blessings by God

So seek and find
His mights and right

When sailing
In the rivers of life.

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