When I was little,  I used to think that
If I climbed a tall ladder I would reach the sky,
as I grew  up that ladder seems like a steep cliff .

Here I am still dreaming about .
far away places this morning,
but tonight I shall write the best potential poem about
the ladder, the sky, and the steep cliff.
when I was little, I used to think like a pirate.
Now, I am a poet.

Top to bottom
Left to right
No matter how you look ahead
It was a sad, sad day

When I walk through a room and
If the silence is too cunning and too strong
I recall a poem: I once read Bird of Texas
I usually let my eyes zoom in on a target
Most of the time, it’s the exit
With the red lights, or the doors with the double bolts

Poetry writing is like double bolts locks
We lock our thoughts and emotions inside ourselves
and worried about what others might think of us
I seriously doubt that Dr. Seuss worried about his unique way of rhyming

Do not like them,
Sam-I-am.
I do not like
green eggs and ham.

Same here with me, I don’t care if you like my poems or not
My eventuated submission: or my manner of speaking.
Is your way of critiquing gratifying Sam I am?

Do not like them,
Sam-I-am.
I do not like
green eggs and ham.

I try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh so mellow*
I try to remember the kind of September
When I wore my navy blue skirt
with white bottom down top,
with glistening extension cornrows
so tight like dreadlocks.

I try to remember the kind of September
When I was young and carefree and no responsibilities
Now it’s September those after school activities.
Oh shiver me timbers to all the bus drivers
Welcome to another school year with tears

Make love not war America.

Faces in the Street

So many faces, so many people
moving like boxes on an assembly line
I wonder if they ever think of the time

There always that one guy who always
Seem to be fidgeting with his cell phone,
With that killer tone of his voice
“***** aye better have my money today”
With that bad ****** expression attitude,

There is always a lesson to be learned,
a story to be told, from the feeling of a poet.
His eyes became the camera zooming from left to right
trying not to fixated on his subject,

So many faces, so many people, and there I was
Thinking of Robin Williams

The way I read your mind
Is the same as sign language in your poetry?

Poetry is the chiseled marble of language;
It’s a paint-spattered canvas - but the poet uses words instead of paint,
and the canvas is you:

You borrow a phrase, and hanged it like a gibbet,
That meant nothing for us: it was so ribbit ,ribbit
You sat there on the log and watch as the frogs
Jump from Lilly pad to lily pad: in the dusky fog
The frozen frogs’ moves, your words croaked

we decipher your deepest fears,
so why do you filled the pond with the splashing tears?