nice poems

Friday, December 15, 2017


This is the purest kind of evil,
Where the heavens receives human blood as wine on the altar;
A barbaric act, draining the mind of the masses,
Whose eyes barely see a better tomorrow
As their blood stain the sanctuary in abyss.

Many of them are gone,
Gone to the land of no return,
They left their praises with the Messiah,
Only for us to witness a mess higher.
Now our tears sing songs,
Songs that our ears can't hear.

These men are awesomely wicked
No wonder, they're like aliens with weak heads
They are mostly called gunmen,
That's why they show no mercy like those gone men
Who claim lives through mass murder;
Now we don't know if there's mass for our mothers
Whose brains were blown out as they were murdered.


HOPE ALIVE(a poem by Sunsampaul Egwu)

Our faces are rubbed with shame,
We live a life where we don't find fame,
We passed through excruciating pains,
After the struggles, we got no gain.

Mind you, this poem is penned to remind you
That you can be the better YOU.
So, stand on your feet and wipe your tears,
Say no to defeat and say no to your fears.

Our faces may be punched with lies.
Daily insult may fly like flies,
But don't ever give up your hope,
Don't ever let them get you with a rope.

You know life is not a bed of roses,
For you are YOU, so don't pretend to be Moses.
Be bold, tenacious and strong,
Don't ever loose hope, even when things go wrong.

©Sunsampaul Egwu Philosopher

BEYOND THE COLOURS(a poem by Sunsampaul Egwu)

Today is not independence,
So don't expect green white green on my skin;
For this nation has failed to grin, wine and grin,
This nation sags and her pant is exposed
All we see is red light, red light
We can't sleep with two eyes closed,
Please give us pink
So our soul won't sink.

Let us for once behold yellow,
So we can greet one another "hello",
This is not Biafra, so hide your scars;
Stand out and shine like the stars.

For if all we need is black and white,
Then there'll be sokoto in our shokoto
This is a land of success
So give us back our conscience.

So there'll be no blood on the street,
No child marriage and rape,
No nepotism and tribalism,
So there'll be peace and not pieces of human bodies. ©Sunsampaul Egwu Philosopher


Saturday, December 2, 2017

OUR SKIN IS AS HOT AS AN OVEN(a poem by Sunsampaul Egwu Philosopher)

Remember what has come upon us;
Look, and behold our reproach!
Our inheritance has been turned over to aliens,
And our houses to foreigners.
We've become orphans and waifs,
Our mothers are like widows.
We pay for the water we drink,
And our foods comes at a price.
They chase at our heels;
We labour and have no rest.
We have given our hands to the enemies,
And the wicked, to be satisfied.
Our forefathers sinned and are gone,
But we bear their iniquities; we are killed by gun.
Servants rule over us,
There's none to deliver us from their hands.
We get our daily bread at the risk of our lives,
Because of the sword we see, we failed to strive.
Our skin is as hot as an oven,
Because of the fever of famine.
They ravished the women in our land,
They raped the girls in our yards.
Our sons were hung up by their neck,
And elders were disrespected.
Young men struggled to survive,
Boys staggered under loads of woods.
The joy of our heart has ceased,
Our morning has turned into mourning.
The crown has fallen from our head,
Our skin is as hot as an oven.
©Sunsampaul Egwu Philosopher
Sunsampaul is a poet, student, and spoken word artiste, he loves writing prose and drama too. You can contact him via 08180861170. He resides in 42 Anthony Agboje Street , Ajegunle, Apapa, Lagos.

AGONY OF A WIDOW by Sunsampaul Egwu Philosopher

It was no dazzling evening. The wind was combating with roofs. It was pouring down. Before Jessica's husband kissed the dust, they were working class parents, hustling hard to pay the rent. Jessica had invested a lot, hoping to see the stars like her wealthy elder sisters. But now, as a widow who had just lost her husband, she was weary, and her melancholic eyes were drowned in tears. Her truncated imagination failed to trace the agony that had spilt them like dust.

      It had turned her soft, swollen eyes into oceans of sorrows. Her home had become a graveyard to mourn her husband. As scattering of stars all over the nation were watching the racing night, her closed-opened eyes harboured the painful demise of her husband.

      Barely a week after the burial, her husband's family clustered in her home with rage, claiming she had killed their brother. They fired catapults of insults at her. They threw her bombs of wickedness. A family that used to be nice to her had suddenly become thorns in her flesh.

       Later on, they invaded her home with her husband's lawyer who read his will aloud. They were perplexed when they discovered he bequeathed his house and wealth to his wife and daughters. Their sweat became blood, and they prepared to cook a pot of wickedness to make sure they could inherit the wealth.

       In the subsequent month, one of Jessica's daughters died. She guessed her in laws were behind the supposed mysterious ailment that befall her little daughter but had no evidence to prove their guilt. They kept making life miserable for her. They lambasted her because she refused to kowtow to them.

      She went through excruciating pains, she was inflicted with several ailments that made her unable to walk. She was abandoned, thereafter the ailments got worst and her body started smelling. She cried day and night for vengeance until she was introduced to a pastor who prayed for her and she was healed after fasting for two weeks with fervent prayer.

      Two days later nemesis caught up with her wicked in laws, they all fell sick and their entire family members suffered excruciating pains as well until they passed on slowly one after the other after confessing their evil deeds to her. What they sowed, they reaped. No man sow plantain and reap banana. Being good is a good lifestyle, it is evil to be wicked; because life is a big circle. Jessica and her only surviving daughter lived happily ever after.

Monday, July 3, 2017

LAGOS IS MY SUCCESS STORY(a poem by Sunsampaul Egwu Philosopher)

When I was four, mama said to me "son, just like a strong horse, one day you'll gallop into Lagos, an electrifying city. A world-class destination, Nigeria’s most amazing city that has wonderful beaches, skyscrapers,
amazing parks, best entertainment, most job opportunities and so much more.

When I first found myself in Lagos, I discovered it's city that never sleeps, you could buy from
the street shops at any time, be it early morning when the cocks are still clearing their tracheae or late night when those flammulatesd owls still hunt for prey. Aboki with small kiosk selling a variety of household items just to excoriate the rumblings of worm in an hungry man's gut.

A land of hospitality, where hospitals are the main priority, saving lives is everyone's dignity, no family want their teenage daughters to loose their virginity, brothers wishing their sister still have purity. Where different tribes live in unity, no wonder it's a land of simplicity.

A land of opportunity, where souls clustered to make ends meet, where graduates, traders, hustlers, business men and women perched like birds of the air, just to make a living. A land where there's no food for lazy men, where rats also hustle to quench their hunger and royals still rumble so they won't fumble or stumble on a dabbled marble.

A land of creativity, where humans are creative, yet they don't create thieves, where talent is born and breed. A land of working class parents, hustling and working to pay rent, a land where traffic jam punch human mind, a land of true federalism where education is taken more seriously than ejaculation. A land of hope, faith, love, wisdom, counsel, understanding, kindness and unity. For this land is my success story. ©Sunsampaul Egwu Philosopher

Thursday, May 4, 2017

I'M EVERYWHERE (a poem by Sunsampaul Egwu)

Don't look for me in only a place of worship,
I'm everywhere, anywhere you call on me, I'll be.
I'm in your small dark room that lacks proper ventilation,
Even though it is not like a palace;
Just call on me.

I'm in the market place where noises are cooked and served to passerby,
No matter the sun and rain,
Flood and swamp in the market;
Just call on me.

I'm in the coven of your enemies that plot to kill you,
When they mention your name,
And invoke your image in a mirror,
My image will definitely appear to defend you.

I'm in the brothel, anytime you are there to win souls for me,
When temptation comes,
When seduction occurs,
I'll stand by you to keep your faith strong.

I'm in your kitchen and other room,
Inasmuch you call on me,
Made your knees kissed the ground just for me,
Stretched your hand in prayer,
You'll notice my presence.

©Sunsampaul Egwu Philosopher