Stop meddling in other people's business
They dash their words against the walls
As if to advertises,  hatred of the human race.
The higher they climb,
the more you can see their disgusting parts

They comes off as useless quacksalver,
A waste of energy, a waste of space,
Words, words, mere words no matter from the heart
They form clichés, and spin the bottles
An idle mind is the devil’s playground
They smile in an annoying self-satisfied manner.
As if bitterness would bring them happiness
                
Who Am I?

This is some journey

Oh boy!
this is some journey for me
Eating poetry, looking at you,
I had no other choice but
to bow to the porcelain queen.
Some words take longer to ******* in the mind
To reach your bliss point, so know your happiness.
Certain insects are edible. But some words
are non-edible, for our inner creative force.

Some of my thoughts may be in my fingers,
From the time I woke up in the morning
my spoken words stay within my head
They are not offensive; however they might make someone
Somewhere, someplace broke a glass into diamonds

When a poet has nothing to offer
she lets you have the sound of silence
so be kind to unkind people.
They need it the most.
because she want to guard her words to
protect her life, she gets knowledge from sun
you see, the sun love the moon so much, he dies
Every night to let her breathe,

So, when a poet has nothing to offer
She lets you have the sound of silence,
A little kindness from the unkind

Peace within.

Reading a good poem silences you. ..it make you think.  It also prepares you for death. .

When my poems flirts, it can find a way to get into your heart
As it ****** you my audiences it’s becomes imagery and symbolism
The bouncer of the entry way, but somehow waltzes its way into the mind of the nonbelievers: activating the rhythm and rhymes

The language of emotions felt like a prickly face, against my long neck,
Every emotion has its place: like the smell of the bourbon breath
which make my pulse leap and my body tremble
"To dream of lust is to dream of me it whispered, so ecstatic!
Effortlessly, I tried so not to give in to the poetic teaser,

*I am the black child of a white father, a wingless bird,
flying even to the clouds of heaven.
I give birth to tears of mourning in pupils that meet me,
even though there is no cause for grief,
and at once on my birth I am dissolved into air. What am I?

Do you trust me to deliver my poems to you?
Without re-inventing the pages or
disparaging my poetic talents

“A man who views the world the same at 50
as he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life.”

Poetry is ongoing art form, the poet never cross the
River to get the imagery,
for the same reason a ghost can’t cross water

Every artist dips his brush in his own soul,
and paints his own nature into ....
The painter puts brush to canvas, and the poet puts pen to pad

Do you trust me to deliver my poems to you?
Without the *******, let me surrender to my passion.
Let me write with all of you in mind
Let's spread kindness and happiness where it’s most needed
into the hearts of the one who believe in me

Poetry is an going art form
educate yourself about the history of the human spirit, before
Condemning it to the trash with the avatar symbol,
Make your craft, worth repeating
and your poems would stand out
like a breath of fresh air in a crowded room.

Holding on so tight
I can barely breathe
I can see star lights flashing,
flashing different colors of the **** bands'

The hooks dug deeper into my skin
Am I being nailed to this  cross?
Without the intimates that emphasize comfort?
The subtle lift, the agony of the fabric,
Bare necessities of the multiway bra