I DIDN’T MAKE IT TO BRUNNEL SHORTLIST AGAIN.
Paint me like a growing flame in the night by visiting
my midnight cries, I won’t burn again.
I won’t run out of this body again like a night
running away for the day to come in.
This is how i gather memories like keys of
I won’t run my fingers on the collateral damages they’ve done to my ego.
Elixir of the mind, capitalist of decorated dreams;
I painted another imageries that
were out of this world but they said
they could not stand the test of time–
They said words have wings & legs,
they fly to paradise to buy time & success;
but mine returned to me with darkness.
I beg to exit from this fog of madness!
I beg to be normal again; for poetry has
sewn more mockery clothes for me than anything else.
I now chase after words & shadows,
I beg to leave these disfigured pictures
hanging on the wings of the wind,
to exile my spirit from metaphors & Similes.
A friend pulled my spirit out from my body
to look for my weaknesses but found none.
I’ve taken more blows on contests than funeral Rams!
Dear Ivara, I was not shortlisted on the Brunnel prize again.
They said my lines & stanzas were sagging,
but you said they were magical, fire & water!
What do you have to say this time?
This darkness is booming & I’m leaving my ghost to roam on a free mode.
Let them grow flames by blowing on my wounds, my life won’t be altered anyway.
We’ll paint a portrait of joy on the sky after
we bring this prize home some-day.
About the Author
John Chizoba Vincent become the names of three people who deliberately see through each other. Sometimes, they are at war with each other and at times, they are the ties that never got broken. They: Them: Us: We represent Boys and their Anatomies, Men and their vulnerabilities, and Humans and their imperfections. Between them are rosy track roads that are rough and tough. They live in a lonely room in Lagos, Nigeria