You shut me into your heart’s great void of silence. . .**

The nagging pain, the fiery blood:
My flame heart………….embalmed
Resentence, revenge to the one that hurt you:
What had love done for you?
What did you learn by saying?
“I love you, I love you
to those who were incapable of loving
Now, I dagger you, over and over,
Erasing the love, I once share with you
Love is a hurting thing,
Hate is a natural emotion,
My heart is no longer silence,
But it fears the unknown………..
What causes hatred.. Love
Where hatred does comes from poison of love

Tonight I pray for my enemies
Not the dead for sure!
The dead and I always settle our feud

I look at my monthly bills on the kitchen table
And decided if I should eliminate those first
Not going anywhere for sure!

I received the blessing, from him
He is my source of love and guidance,
An enemy can be mortal
Or can be in this moment China:
An enemy who got away with genocide:
Tonight I pray for my enemies,
Because, I am the voice for the dead..

Watch the morning glories in the morning,
   Bow their little faces to the sunrise,
Dripping, tears that release a fragrant
From the flowered garden
See the crickets run for shelter,
As the sun rises in the early morn
See the grass sharpen its blade again
The stifling insect, see the butterflies swarm
White pedals, white ******, touch of innocent

Watch  as the morning glories said good morning
A sign of love, with its slender stems heart-shaped leaves
  and trumpet-shaped flowers of pink, purple-blue, magenta,
slowly bow their faces as the sun came out.

Ideas

What daily thoughts does a poet carry?
from his life, from day to day
are they his own visions, or passing images?
Of the people he passes on the street?

No matter how hard he tries to forgets
The faces of desperation behind the fears
Seem so helpless and hopeless,

He can be high today, and low tomorrow,
On those passing day, who own it?

Those moment were his, he nailed them:
A poet thought is never his own
It always  best to relinquish them into verses,
And allow his ideas to be the best of the best
He seized the moment, he frame his ideas
Eventually someone will be Inspires by his free-flowing,

An uneducated woman clings to a young lad’s side
He woo her, he romance her
in six month time he took her for his bride

on the honeymoon in the heat of the night
in the wooded  house lid by only the street lights

he saw her for whom she was: as she lay there
a thing as cold as ice, without any care

he consummate the marriage like a hasty
frighten, laid back  hare:

he rose up before dark, and followed the cat
as its sat on his grandfather old front door mat

he wonder why he downgraded himself , no ecstasy  
was it for lust or love, *** or sympathy

how could he take her for his bride,
and cling to her side,

Not knowing she was cold and sexless

A relationship like this can be painful
but not necessarily hopeless

**For Love is blind but with the fleshly eye
,
He was so wrong. today she is colder than ever

The secret of being a senior

There is always one more death to make that long sigh!
We fret over ever little things
We stay awake and cry when we ought to be laughing
Our humanistic way of coping with life: (perhaps)

How Old Is Mrs. Claus?
Mrs. Claus is 1,136 years young!
We will never grieve for the Mr. and Mrs. Claus
They will forever live in our hearts,
Fictional but pleasing to the young

When we were in our youth
Going to the doctors never really apply to us
So we put N/A  on every line..
We define the lack of trust in them

Trust is collapsing in America these days
How many more times can we believe in the governments leaderships?
I did build my wall, not because he says to do it.
It my bank note, it my reminder that evil exist in all of us.

We often tried teaching the youth a little thing or two
Wisdom comes from age, suffering and with its memories of pain.

My daughter friend just turns twenty one, beautiful, yet green
She thinks that she is ready to take on the world
I told her to slow down, and look around: (this new normal is fierce)
Twenty-one is just a number, being wise is another thing
Wisdom emerges not from experience itself.
  by working towards it:

The secret of being a senior, we don’t have to worry
About the female cycled, or getting pregnant
We can cry for no reason: and wrinkle out gracefully…

Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear,
Under my blue mask eyes that
hate without a trace of kindness: