Nine, five, one, three—  
Is that truly all that remains of you?  
What fragments of me linger in your mind?  
If only you would take a moment to slow down  
And gaze upon the world that unfolds before you.  

Your way of life is shrouded in enigma.  
Your sixth sense, paired with your keen understanding of women,  
Collapses like a carefully arranged stack of dominoes —  
So unsettling, so uncertain, so trapped in its own confines.  

Please, help me unravel the intricacies of your thoughts.  
You've often claimed that men are creatures of folly,  
Incapable of taming their wild impulses,  
As many chase after fleeting desires  
And consume whatever is placed before them: so you said.  
Sister, sister, if only you could just slow down,  
For we are already halfway through this journey.  

When a past love transforms into merely a chapter  
In the book of our lives,  
It signals that you have reached the finish line of that phase.  
His number still drifts endlessly in my mind—  

Nine, five, one, three, is all that you have left of him.  
Please, help me grasp the depths of it all,  
Why is it so difficult to truly love?

," I felt my fingernails digging into his back during a profoundly charged moment. It was striking to see tears streaming down the face of this strong man—he was unguarded!
He sighed deeply and reached his ****** again and again.
This was not just a display of sportsmanship;
it was a clear expression of inner turmoil

Your flesh was never warmer than my passion, a flame more intense than you could ever bear. My love for writing poetry is my secret weapon.
While I may not claim to be gifted
My identity is Black, and words have always motivated me. I can string them together easily, but making them meaningful? That’s the real challenge. Sometimes, I feel madder at life’s complexities than the Mad Hatter himself.

The idea of being in love fills my thoughts, yet this love doesn’t seem to embrace me in return. My mood can shift dramatically, like the changing sky. As the saying goes, I can’t come out to play on a rainy day—no way! Loving from afar and from the heart is a double-edged sword; there are times when I might reach for a bottle of whiskey to cope.

There are moments when I feel like I'm winning, but often, I realize the need to step back and recharge. Living in a fantasy world filled with lies, passion, and fleeting connections can be perilous, like mixing bleach carelessly.

Yet, the words that spill from his lips in his native tongue capture and soften my heart. Today, my heart races with thoughts of him. I am mesmerized by the beauty of his poetic expression. For those forty-five minutes, I found myself pondering, “Have you ever thanked God for such a blessing?" His smile answered that question perfectly.

I let go of my burdens, encouraged by his poetic gesture. With my birthday just five days away, I can’t help but feel my age diminishing in the face of these emotions; oddly enough, my body seems to be laughing at the numbers. Rudderless? Perhaps, but to hell with it! I won’t be docking anytime soon; Ama is on her way to...Ghana
“Today my heart races for you he said in Twi.

I often reflect on the character of specific individuals. The character I'm referring to, in a dictionary sense, is not the same as the characters in my book. Writing reveals a person's character like nothing else.

The characters in my poems are never about me; they reflect my willingness to come to terms with them. For the past two years, I have taken on a new character: Who am I? What was I thinking? Who told me I could take on such a huge responsibility?

I have found that friendship is better for business than business is for friendship. I have proven this quote to be true. I always appreciate when someone gives me something, and I cherish that gift until the end.

Years ago, when I was a teenager and times were tough, my cousin and I would borrow things from each other, like clothing. I remember my favorite blouse that I lent to her. I spent almost all my wages to buy that top, yet she took forever to return it to me. One day, I finally mustered the courage to ask her for it back. She promised to return it within a week.

A week passed, then another, and another. I decided to go to her house to retrieve my favorite yellow top. As I walked into her backyard, I saw my yellow silk blouse in the sink, lying in a pile of ***** laundry. My heart stopped for a moment—there it was, green and moldy, crying out to me: "Rescue me!" I couldn't believe my eyes.

She never respected my belongings or those of others. It has been over thirty years, and I still have the pink robe my boss gave me after the birth of my first daughter. I cherish it and appreciate the thoughtfulness behind that wonderful gift. When someone gives us something, we must consider how much they care to choose a token of their love for us.

I often reflect on the character of some people and how they tend to use others. When you can’t come through for them, they sulk and feed on others' sympathy. My advice is this: don’t help people who won’t help themselves. Just walk away and take it from this character.

My poetry aims to provoke thought and reflection on complex themes of love, lust, and the myriad emotions surrounding humanity. I particularly focused on the raw and often troubling nature of ****** arousal, especially from a male perspective. I wanted to shed light on the painful experiences of women who have endured encounters with womanizers—those whose advances leave a lingering sense of disgust and apprehension. For many, the refrain “once bitten, twice shy” resonates deeply; a reminder of the scars left by past experiences.

Moreover, I draw parallels between politics and personal relationships. Just as politicians are often driven by ambitions of power and prestige—neglecting the true happiness of the masses—so too can intimate interactions become one-sided and manipulative. There’s a piercing moment of vulnerability that comes with being stripped bare emotionally, akin to the experience of a medium rare steak: tender yet exposed, much like the hollow feeling of a faked ******—both experiences leaving one feeling undone.

Among my body of work, I treasure a poem titled “Free *****,” which embodies my wish to let my thoughts roam freely across the vast expanse of the internet. I released my words into the digital ether, hoping they would reach hearts and minds far beyond my immediate surroundings. To my delight, my poems resonated with thousands of readers, sparking a dialogue filled with interpretations and reflections. Many of them encouraged the idea of self-love, urging me to appreciate not only my work but also the journey that birthed it.

What this world truly craves, I believe, is love—sweet love—rather than the pervasive bitterness of hate. I yearn to set my poem free, allowing it to travel far and wide, carried by the currents of thought and emotion, touching lives and fostering connection.

Be quiet so you won’t be heard anymore. You might have heard this phrase growing up. Why do people think it’s their job to silence others and stop them from speaking freely?

Every spoken word should be heard, like a loud ringtone from a cell phone that signals someone is calling. Everyone deserves to be heard.

My grandparents and parents believed they should silence me as a poet when I was a child. At one point, I found it hard to speak up. People kept asking why I was so shy. Why was I afraid to talk to adults? My shyness turned into social anxiety. With my friends, though, I spoke confidently. Adults intimidated me because they used commanding language: “Be quiet so you won’t be heard anymore.”

As an adult, I struggle to follow orders or deal with condescension. Maybe that’s why I love writing so much. When I write, only I can hear my voice. It wasn’t until I shared my work that I let others see my thoughts. I had stayed silent for too long and held back my feelings for too long. I decided to confront those who silenced me with my own spoken words.

"Language is powerful; it is the greatest science. It captures the fullness, color, and diversity of the world and of people. It is more valuable than wealth, buildings, ships, religions, paintings, or music." — Walt Whitman.

He captured her charm, serenity, and intelligence in his work. He frequently glanced from the canvas to her face. Asking her not to smile was like asking her not to breathe; patience wasn’t her strong suit.

What’s in a smile? Beauty, and everything! It was a shame that it didn’t showcase a young woman in her prime, the one everyone came to know and love. Her strong features and openness transcended the warmth of a morning rose blooming in spring.

Instead, he painted an autumn theme rather than the warmth of spring. The shape of her face and the curve of her lips were striking, yet they seemed inadequate for someone destined to be a future queen.

That was how I captured him while he slept. That was two years ago. He never contributed anything meaningful to our relationship. Was it love, or was it compassion? I remember those two years well. I told him I would forever love him. What did he do? He sold the link to our happiness. He sold the bike, GH 6615.

Those two years were a peaceful interlude for us, a reminder that what’s in a smile is not always what we think it is.
If I were a carpenter and you were a lady,