~~♥~~

I used to think men
should be more like books
Both you cannot
judge by looks...

If I didn't want to finish reading
I put it down... no heart was bleeding

A book will never fuss or fight
It will stay with you
through the night...

It doesn't smoke. It doesn't drink.
It won't leave toothpaste
in the sink!

It doesn't binge... it don't eat...
It won't leave up the toilet seat!

It don't forget. It doesn't mope.
It won't hog the TV remote!

It doesn't have to have
The last say...
It doesn't have legs

to walk away.

But it's not soft. It isn't warm.
It doesn't keep you
safe from harm.

Even though it makes no fuss
It can't think. It can't discuss.

Even though it has its charms
it can't hold you in its arms.

It doesn't pine. It doesn't miss.
It can't hug and it can't kiss.

So now I think on it again...
... I think BOOKS should be
             more like MEN!!!


SoulSurvivor
2/20/2015

She couldn't wait
To go to school
Make new friends

She couldn't wait
To drive her own car
Mustang and all

She couldn't wait
For her lover to propose
Show off her new ring

She couldn't wait
For her last day of work
Retirement settling in her mind

Lying on her sunken bed-muscles sore-eyes weary-drooling like a newborn-

She reminisced her life
over
&
Over
&
Over

She had finally realized
Waiting was a fools game
All her life she had waited
For what?
The End in Mind.

They cried when I was a child
Their eyes would burn with resentment  
i was exquisite

They laughed when I was a teenager
Their stomachs overflowing with glee
i was grotesque

So I tried to be...
Smart
Stupid
Funny
Outgoing
Shy

Then I....
Lied
Starved
Cheated
Bullied
Betrayed
Hurt

Daughter, don't you see? The world will always hate you; you are competition.
Why?
I didn't want to compete
Didn't want to win the race
Didn't want a gold medal
Didn't want to be first

You are competition because you are alive.
You have fire in your eyes
Flowers in your hair
Sun in the darkest of your eyes

I was a brilliant fish swimming in the ocean, against the tide.
Why?
Because only dead fish follow the current

The colors of the seasons reflect your true inner beauty.
Winter:  gleaming and glistening the white winter themes

Summer: The songs of the birds in Nana’s sycamore trees,
a friendly reminders of your tone of voice

Spring and fall: blends harmoniously together
Like our cultures, as we rise above

All the friction and roughness of discrimination
Throughout the years on earth

If my poem arouses you then I know
I am doing something good
I am the poet,
the narrator of this poem
I write what I feel,
I say what I like
Somehow, I captivate my audience
Who I am, and who you think I am
or what you think of me.
Have no bearings  
on this poet's work

Therefore, I am who I am,
without the smearing
I am from this Century
where I am free from *******,
my words spread in a nanosecond,
across the internet,
however, my lip are sealed
my poetic spirit guides me:
until it’s time to orchestra
an forgettable vogon list of  poems
with my unique vernacular

I can take you the mountain top and
Make you believe it’s easy to climb
I can make you reach for the star,
Knowing that it’s unreachable by far

Life has a way of making you fall on your behind
The language I use, it far too complicated
Because I celebrates life with poetry
As well as I loathes it

So what’s your question?
I probably knows the answer

songs will sing
of realism our
   song will rhyme
realistically
            time will
serenade us colliding
    moons align with
eclipses
        blessings
be given us
       really.

Whenever, February comes around
and if I am still here breathing ,
I must shed a tear
Whenever the coldest month
of the year gets to me
I flashback to 1959 and
the bullock’s heart tree:

My vivid memories might seem a bit strange,
But according to sources, it’s where my Nana
buried my navel string: under the old bullock’s heart tree

The bullock’s heart trees shall forever lived on
So are my memories of that secret place
the sparrows and the blackbirds shall
  forever feast upon the ripened fruits it produces

The broad leaves shall shelter the wild doves,
from the tropical sun and rain,
However, how strange my memories might seems
whenever, February arrives and I am still
breathing, I must shed a tear.
because, I am forever blessed ..Happy birthday to me.