The warmth of your breath against my neck,
your beard as it caresses my cheek,
your eyes as they meet my lips,
your fingers twirling a strand of my hair,
the letters of my name tip toeing off your tongue,
they demand my heart to burst in love with you.

The Amelia Falls, where waters break,  
A young man stands as dawns awake.  
Sigil of Lucifer, bold and bright,  
A mark of will, a guiding light.  
Hecate blessings like the moon light.


Oil and gas beneath the presidents feet,  
Fueling ships, the nation's fleet.  
Once rice and sugar tilled the land,  
Now black gold flows from the presidents right hand.  

Through sweat and steel, he built his name,  
A force of progress, forged in flame and fame 
Like Musk before, he dreams in codes,  
Where energy sparks and data flows.  

The Dutch arrived, their wager cast,  
They bought the land, they saw his past.  
Not just wealth, but future planned,  
They forged his bond, they took his hand.  

And now he stands, the world in sight,  
Guyana rising, bold and bright.  
No longer bound by past despair,  
A titan shaped by fire and air.  

In the city’s heart, a hush unfolds,  
The President, a child he holds.  
A newborn wrapped in tender grace,  
The future’s breath upon his face.  

With care he lifts, with might he sways,  
A leader’s arms, a nation's gaze.  
For in this child, the hope is set,  
The dream not done, the path not met.  
The pink COVID  slip that cares
The 100k cash grant that shares

Votes like sugar, sharp yet sweet,  
A pulse that makes the drumbeat meet.  
Like honey poured in hands of fate,  
A whispered choice that fixes the slate, with hands of faith

The young rise up with eyes alight,  
Their voices carving paths of might.  
No story ends where hope still grows,  
A tide that swells, a flame that glows.

Gold in veins, the mountains sing,  
Electronic minds, a future’s wing.  
Rice in fields, the harvest thrives,  
Oil and gas keeps the 25 alive.  

Cards are swiped, the markets rise,  
Trade and commerce touch the skies.  
A land of wealth, both old and new,  
Built by hands both strong and true.  

Yet in his veins, the battle flows,  
Kept alive where medicine goes.  
Right hands guide, the path is clear,  
Strength restored with 25 percent every year.  

Through fire and fate, he stands so tall,  
A future built, a nation’s call.  
The Falls still roar, the waters run,  
And so his empire has begun 1331.

It's okay to be tired,  
It's okay to feel weak.  
We all have our moments—  
That doesn’t mean you’re weak.  

Let the tears fall, let your heart breathe,  
Release the daggers your own mind weaves.  

Hold yourself—  
You're the only one who knows its depths.  
Take your time,  
Trust me, it won't bring your death.  

You love yourself more than you know,  
It's in the tears, the screams, the fight—  
That’s how it shows

I've never found anything special about my city.

Everything's so completely and utterly

normal,

gray,

like the air itself is pressed down,

pressing everything flat,

smoothing away the edges until

nothing

stands

out.

The same streets, the same buildings,

the same expressions on the people rushing by.

It feels like the universe forgets this place

and maybe we've all started to forget too.



I've walked these roads a thousand times,

watched time flow and seasons change.

But, nothing ever changes much.



Sometimes, I wonder if it's just me.

Am I the only one who sees the gray,

the monochrome painting,

devoid of colour.

Maybe I've stopped seeing the colour,

erased it from my memory

scrubbing it away until only faint outlines remain.



I try to see past the surface,

At the cracks in the sidewalk,

where tiny weeds grow.

At the way the light hits the murals

as the sun is setting.

At the laughter

echoing against the dull horizon.



There's not much, but maybe,

deep inside,

there's a small something,

hidden underneath the gray.

There's a hidden beauty

that you only see if

you look real hard.



But, then again,

maybe not.

Maybe this city is just what it is-

plain,

ordinary,

and I'm the one trying to find something special

in a place where there's nothing to find.

I’ll tell my mom about the love that you want.

I’ll tell her you’re wrong, but in my heart, I agree.
I act like I'm blind but tear down anything to see.

Your affections—they are my drug, and I am a closeted addict.

Now, I admit to the desires your flirtations imply.
I confess it in my manifesto that I will soon deny.

I’ll persuade even myself that you are nothing.

The tension in my mind frays the walls of my secret.
The weight of the burden makes it hard for me to keep it.

To confide in you and love your precious soul.

I privately proclaim my feelings as I whisper my love onto this page.
My desperate silence begs me to break out—to rage and to rage.

Kurt Cobain wasn't alone
or original in saying:
"Teenaged angst has paid off well.
Now I'm bored and old,
self-appointed judges
judge more than they have sold."

Ha ha, OLD  at 25  ????
dead at 27,!!!
pearls before swine...

"Hello, hello. Hello, hello."

"We can feed off of each other.
We can share our endorphins."

You can say whatever you want about the band Nirvana.
I don't care.
I'm not them.
And they've already received
as many accolades as anything can ever hope to.

Lao Tzu or  the old master
He would ramble about
good and bad,
right and wrong
as an objective
illusion.
Talent and voice
though
are
NOT  
subjective
or
an
Illusion !

sometimes,  
    i       un-know  
        the shape  
         of self—  
               dissolve before  
                       remembering.

   i sit  
     in the ache  
     of heat,

and nothing
else.

       minutes  
                   dissolve  
   into  
          maybe hours  
or never.

drip,
  drip,
    drip,
      drip.

          (i­ can’t tell  
     if it’s dripping  
           or if i’m unraveling  
                 in rhythm.)

             thoughts            blur,  
      slide,­  
              melt—  
                        into tile grout.

i breathe —
maybe i don’t.
maybe the air is too soft to hold.

    maybe i’ve been  
                      gone  
                          thi­s whole time:

     what was i  
              thinking?
  (was i thinking?)

            just heat,         and water,  
and the pressure of something  
                    heavier  
                       ­ than skin—  
    but not quite grief,

                      not quite anything.

    and still i sit.

       and still,  
                       the faucet sings,  
             and still,  
                    no one knows  
      how quiet  
                       i’ve become.