©PmcCoywrites

If he were a man;
what name would he be called?
‘Cause he has paid all my bills,
He forgives all my ills,
He even helps me with my impossible kills.

The way he comes sometimes I don’t expect,
His works I’ll always respect,
He has walked with me than anyone else;
much more than friends with fake caress.
God: If he were a man.

When my hope suddenly dwindles,
He watches over me mercifully,
He understands I’m weak like trickles,
And I could barely give a sound bountifully,
God: If he were a man.

Tell me, what will he be called?
What kind of throne would he occupy?
Wouldn’t His Majesty be so high?
How’d He have coped with streams of endless guests?
Give it a good think if God were a man.

©PmcCoywrites 2019

Cassava pudding,
Vache soup tray coming.
Fresh French milk cooling.
To my table comes la vache.
Accompanied with a great echo.
As an underdog's status gone ashy.
Reality kicks what was once dreamy.
Conquering a war full of undying army.

©PMcCoywrites

I learned life's lessons.
That everything happen for a reason.
You'd better start seeing the blessings.
Supposed I have affluence.
I would have had wrong influence.
My life would make no difference.
But, house a clingy pest called a woman.
She'd parade in crass pretence.
When she loves money over the man.

©PMcCoywrites

How can I not know;
she is agabagabious?
How can she sum up all my mistakes;
just to table them one day?

We argued about anything.
But I didn't see what was coming;
was way weightier than I thought.
Little did I know,
She busied herself piling my acts.
And she made up her mind to quit.

Just one last shot killed me.
I know there's no redemption;
when a woman wants to go.
Because her mind is made up long ago.
If you try to keep her in her state.
You will keep a ghost in a shell.

©PMcCoywrites

Let me clean this cauldron.
I must keep it fit, not to abandon;
what tomorrow holds for me.
For tomorrow is heavily pregnant for me.
I must seize every moment.
And stop seeing posing predicament.
I will be glad this one very long day,
Doesn't roll its mat into my next day.

©PMcCoywrites

Today's twenty four hours,
Seem like seventy two hours.
Everything happened just fast.
Each ugly moment chose to last.
I saw myself thinking on my toes.
And I couldn't make stew with my tomatoes.