a poem by UKAONU DORIS OBIANUJU, Nigeria

By his grace am nineteen,
Some say its just a number,
But a fruitless exercise I say.

I detest silence at this age,
Cause I believe I was born for the best life.
Before my very own eyes,my passion drifts.
The chronicles of my credibility doesn't trip the earth,
For I have barely scratched its surface.

My predecessors have set the box so high,
The thoughts of failure keeps me away from climbing.
Ignoring the fact that its nothing ventured,nothing gained.
Am like one on a mission without a vision,
So ignorant of my purpose on earth.

Time is not a friend to man,
But I hope it doesn't whiz past me soon enough,
Melting me like a candle wax unfulfilled.
To save my self this agony,
I guess its time I rose from my slumber,
Pulling my self by my bootstraps,
Before MR DEATH comes smiling at me.

I must learn to shoulder all my responsibilities,
Plant the grass,nurture it to become greener.
Seize to mingle with the ungodly,
Fight the battle of success like a wounded lion.

I must be for the glory,not the degradation on earth.
Scavengers would not celebrate my death.
A death of honour I crave,
Definitely not on a silver platter.
The crown on glory must fit perfectly to my head,
History would not write me off.
I must enjoy the lasting benefits of MY DEATH.

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