I wish there was a way for me to keep my initials out of your mind
I shall continue writing my stories into poetry, and you would be forever
Be haunted by her flashing eyes and beguiling smile until death.

What the devil has joined together, it will stumbled and fall
but every desire has an obstacle in it, and that obstacle was you.
So, do bear in mind that not every pretty face or smile
isn't real, genuine or sincere  

Night haunts and evil lurks in every corner. Like plague it’s...
For a black heart will only find beauty in darkness.

The worst of the initial pain is yet to come, my arch rival and enemy
you seem to have a lot of time to stand and stare at the dark glare;
mysterious abyss of love.

The Pain of Being in Love
With Someone You Can Never Be With.

You might think you are not thinking, but you are.
Lonely nights, wishful days thinking and planning,
Of how your life should have been,

There are two kinds of pain, but there are three kinds
of lovers, pain, insanity and
there is love in you waiting to give…
Suddenly you think of them as one
Falling in love, feeling the pain, and going insane...

Love is a very painful, insanity is rare
However, True love is a choice,
Lovers' festival is for true lovers,
Pain, Love, And Insanity of Red heart’s day

The sound that broke the silence
around us..
and there we were making love
while I compose a poem of passion
using your strokes as my guide
capturing the moment of my creativity

I am consumed with guilt:
By not having an ******
Therefore as you know my poem is undone ...
I need that 70 ways to please my lover

Behind the mask of darkness
Always lies the madness of one inner self
It is important to respect one fear
Around this time of Halloween

The autumn leaves had blanket the cold October ground
Covering the Jack' o lantern on the front porch,
And I wasn’t about to let nothing petrify me that cold night

I remember that morning had come a minute too soon
Before my R E M cycle kicked in
I wasn’t mentally prepare to face another day
But there I was once again: undone

In my country we were never allowed to,
Celebrate Halloween or dress up in
Anything, that resembles evil, ghost, globin,
Headless horsemen, or vampires,
It was known to be the works of the devil doings

My candid thoughts were on Halloween spooky night
The loud screams of trick or treats,
was heard all around this gloomy town of Collins port
Small tots all dress up in hideous costumes

I had allowed fear to control my thoughts and inner space
Black spiders, howling wolves and black coffins,
The creepiest sound and display on route 69
Grown folks hide behind the masks of darkness
While parading the street of Sotho in Manhattan

Another long night of evil spirits, witches and ghosts terrify the night;
Toddlers with Tiaras was on the verge of tears
what a lose-lose situation: From beginning to end
Close to ten there I was cruising down route 69

I check the glove compartment, took out a peppermint patty,
The rusty Beretta Nano pistol was still there,
snugly into my glove compartment
My pepper spray was close by my trigger fingers

Suddenly, I felt a ****, scraping, and clunking, squeaking sound
My tire blowout in the middle of nowhere,
Behind the mask of darkness
Always lies the madness of one inner self
"Trick or treat!"

My narrative Reportage
They said that I made a better storywriter than a poet
However, poets get their ideas from stories,
But my creativity comes from a glass of Moet Chardon (:)
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man got on the train during rush hour
He passed right through the crowd and went on his way to the front car
and leaned against the moving  door

His sudden outburst of laughter made the passengers looked around
He was a sight for sore eyes this character,
but instead he became my instant story to tell
Or behold a Poet laureate mastered piece  
Dark soiled clothes he wore, his dingy T-shirt he use for a hanky:
With empty pocket hanging low, toothless he smile and kept on smiling
Slurred speech and some missing toes he became my focus point
What’s the use of having lot of money and not sharing?
Within those moments, I saw a decade of homelessness within his character
An ex-mariner, a husband, a degraded broken hearted soldier,
America a failing superpower country:
and most of all New York City a FAILING disaster
So I began my journey, either to compose a poetry piece or tell my eyewitness story into sections of poetry and fiction:

The secret of poetry

Self-discipline, self-hatred
is nothing but negative energy:
He seem hammered standing there on the podium
We all stood there quietly waiting,
shifting from one foot to another,
Suddenly, I recalled the Pied Piper of Hamelin
and there we was about to be
Lured into another poet’s madness
Persuasion and performances
What came next brought the crowd to order
He said *******, *******, and **** all of you.
I think I can still hear the record scratch sound effect
coming to a halt .... then he said
“Can silence actually drive you crazy?

Two days old can of soup
Priceless was his favorite donate suit
His comfort level isn’t God priority
For his lack of the necessities of life

How can one miss what they never experience?

Love is a mysterious thing poker face
Even though we tend to think of soul mates as a symbiotic union,
We have to be open-minded to all venues
As we all can recalled from failed romance,
that it was always the mindset
that trigger some strong emotion into the explosion
that separate the thing called love.

It’s have been more than thirty odd years since
He walked away and left me with deep tattoo tears,
Those tears never fades, but the pain remain the same
Love shouldn’t be a pawn in anyone’s game

Like a needle under my thin layer of skin,
I can see it crawling; it can see it poking,
teasing that draw me closer, and the teasing
that pushed me further away with the wind

Would I ever learn?  Would I ever stop looking for love?
When would my heart say to me, enough is enough?
Stop falling for their lies, get angry and take off something
Or violently break something into pieces, like a thief in the night

  Stop badgering my mind, stop targeting my heart
Because love doesn’t live here anymore… stop!!!!

Self-respect, self-endurance and self-confidence
Now it is my turn to walk away undefeated..


*Feed me the truth not your lies
don't tell me it's chocolate cookies
when it's almond cookies..
don't tell me it's over,
when it now in full bloom
don't tell me you love me
knowing that you belongs to another

words can be so simple just
feed me the truth not your lies.

When you kiss me yesterday
You said to make it last until we meet again
That was seven years ago
  I watched as we exchange that kiss on VHS

Today it made me squirm
Your kiss was an act.
Without the green lighting of  a sequel




“Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time.”

― Thomas A. Edison

The thousands of grey hair circle my hairline
matching the wrinkle lines on my aging face
They came with pain and hardships,
and not enough love to go around;

Suddenly, an expressive emoji of my younger face
came to surface, happy yet sad, yet no crack
but this all came about when time had relapse :
so many heart-break, so many mistakes,

Like humpty the wall breaker, or was it the dream crasher?
Time has treated me like a step child.

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.

Family Secret

An Ice-cream man, with an Ice-cream van
His melodic chimes seem magical  and enchanting
the heat waves, a major summer killer

Little children with happy faces make biblical verses
Jump off the pages and come alive
Block to blocks, street to streets
laughter could be heard for miles

 There he was sitting on the old stoop
A little freckle face boy.
with eyes of a deep, dark blue
Waiting for God to answer his pray

Poor, little Vincent Maloney

He remember his grandmother harsh words
"Wipe your tears away, and pray in silent
Young Vincent Maloney"

“I pity your mother and I pity her choices,
and most all I pity her
For eloping with the colored man
 Barbara Coleman husband

Wipe your nose, and weep no more
Your daddy ain't your daddy
But your daddy doesn’t know

.
Race is not a determinable concept my child.

After, I said goodbye: to my yesterday tears
The sun shifted away from the lemon trees
In requital of my leaving my yesterday behind
Was it a sign, was it my imagination?

I remember their eyes, I remember the tears
I remember their touch,  I remember their
Style, Diction, Tone, and Voice  
which never faded from my mind

I love you, I love you, I love them
and I knew I loved their shameless plug

However, my shameless heart,
and baring soul wanted more,
but never to be their soul mates,
I wanted to be free,
I wanted the other side of fear,
I wanted the other side of fear to rise up with me.

For the wonderful ladies, who loved them for me?
Keep on loving them,
you need them more than I do………

ACROSTIC POEM

F acebook is not the place for religious people
A ngelic fanatics, lashing on to the nonreligious folks words
C ritic dealers from across the globe: scandalous
E yeballing and ID’ in, every aspect of our lives
B roadcasting activities not fit or proper
O f men and women from the bones yard
O bjectionable political speeches of 2017 trends
K angaroos court for the Internet wireless hillbillies

He looked down at his swollen feet
His ***** bedding, his rocky pillows
His out door rest room
While the rich ate Portobello mushrooms
Simmer in brown gravy.

They pulled up alongside his box fence
  The tinted window rolled down  a hand
Reaches out  “keep the change they mumble”
The taste of a poor man‘s grave

Is a fair exchange

Good grief

You barely made it through the work day
Listening to the sound of the bed and chair alarms  
From the time you start the shift
Until you finish it. They just wouldn’t sit down

A chemical imbalance in their brains,
We kept getting a paycheck and
We kept on giving it to them. Those awful drugs,
Sometimes it works. Sometimes it don’t
They just wouldn’t sit down.

Mr. Steven Wallace,
I am going to end this hopefully with your blessing
When a brain that have been addled by boozes and drugs
fallen from the socket for a period of time

**Sit Beside you...
What is all this?
I know how furiously their hearts is beating

My poems travel far
It doesn’t need a visa
Or a green card to enter the heart of many
It doesn’t need your permission,
to make others smiles
My poems will always be foreign to you

Translated in the gift of tongues,
My poems owes you nothing,
But it promises you more,
Let my travelling poems be my gift to you;

With a trendy feel of a human touch
in which the world need now.
Free *****, but let my poems travel

sweet and sour plums the
fruits all covered  in black ants
  an intense fragrance

To give birth to a new poem
Like buds to flowers, forming lovely thoughts into words
I have create something from nature, to be one with the soil

My words of wisdom came off as freedom of expression
I have demand precision; while planting an imagery vision
In the mind of my readers, my pen moves, my lips were sealed
but my heart and my thought were divided in small pieces

So, here I am giving each and every one of you nourishment
 From this placenta of words to form a new poem;
Emotion you must experience, my insight you must follow,
to find value in something like this,
is called artistry of writing poetry.

And what do I get in return?
What words of wisdom I could possibly impart?
Knowing, I made you think, about writing your next poem.
Is my satisfaction: said this poet

Poetry is one of the *** position that most of us
Is afraid of trying, we squirm to the ideas of
Giving it a go: the *** in poetry goes …..
from the low pitch, to the high volume
Of ecstasy, it doesn’t always have to
Be after dark, it was said that the gay men

And women enjoy *** more than the straight men
Implicit and boldly imaginative: hashtag
the straight men and women

Sugar level is low, while the gay men and women
Level is high on excitement; it’s all about the enjoyment
Poetry is *** to new ideas of acceptance,

A lady in the street, but a freak under the sheets,
Shyness in the voice, to a loud thunderous conclusion
Of mumbling words: asking for help from the almighty

Tomorrow, someone is going to look into their baby’s face
And called him or her Poetry, after a night of ***,
The toes curling *******, to face images of Satanism
While clinching on for dear life: Poetry is life
Staying alive, be not afraid of poetry…..


*What *** is, we don't know, but it must be some sort of fire. For it always communicates a sense of warmth, of glow. And when the glow becomes a pure shine, then we feel the sense of beauty." -- D. H. LAWRENCE

I am the poem, the naked poem
Feel the poetic tone. From the moment
you laid eyes on me.
The break lines and the awkward feeling,
you get throughout each stanza,
represent my beautiful nakedness

Then comes the unprovoked aggression of my actions,
Never blanket my words,
let my audience feel the power of my strength
I am the poem that can never be ban
I rather you wouldn’t strip my words from the truth,
but embrace it with an open mind

Nobody knows when our last goodbye going to be.

When our Love has gone and left us: we crawl back into the shell of our former self:
we remember, we relived, the first marble
that was taken from us, our favorite pencil that was snatched by the bullies
We let our emotion take over:
our marijuana-addled state of mind seized
Sleepless night, reckless hours, Dehydration and Insomnia –
Heartbreak is real: deception is a poker game:

We remember the struggles, we remember our kindness,
The sacrifices we made, especially burning the midnight oil:
Then we see that old familiar face,
Stepping right out from   our bodies in slow motion...
And take charge, we tried our best to stop the madness,
But it played out like a cloudy dream,
In a panicky state we yelled for it to stop;
to please come back, please, don’t do that

Our mind creates our thoughts, but when the beast
Is out he goes on a rampage, right to the source of the game
To the love who has gone and left us:
The damage has been done: how do one move
Away from the game: death is inevitable

When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest, and findeth none. Then he saith, I will return into my house from whence I came out; and when he is come, he findeth it empty, swept, and garnished. Then goeth he, and taketh with himself seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter in and dwell there: and the last state of that man is worse than the first. Even so shall it be also unto this wicked generation. Matthew 12:43-45
R.I.P

I came back to the poem with more ideas,
Trying to wake up the unsuspecting reader
To walk with them though my stories
I didn’t want them to think I was rapping
nor was I singing the blues

Poetry is no longer frightening
Like a sudden force of lightening;
Awakening your senses to the art
From the start: to the fuzzy end

I dared you not to walked away from this piece
However, I beg of you to read this piece with ease
Today, I wish that the little birds on my window
Will sing to me, but instead the cold morning breeze
kept them away:
An exciting dimension of their songs makes my day
Comes alive:

In my lucid dream last night, I saw beach goers
Watching the tides go in and out:
way down the harbor road
Their soak their feet in a stream
of warm running water

So I took a seat and I joined the relaxing crowd
Dreams are scarier, more than poetry.

Sadness flies on the wings of the morning and out
of the heart of darkness comes the light. ~Jean Giraudoux

I came back to this poem with a sense of knowing, that a

*Poet can survive everything but a misprint Oscar -Wilder

I always know when I’m in love
My heart reacts to the sound of your name
Like pounding waves on a stormy day
Until I received the text you sent yesterday
My love for you fade so fast like excitement.

In the footsteps of the day
Is not like the footstep of the night
My eyes knows the dark

My souls know the rooms
The corridors, the smell,
The peek a boo light under the
entrance door and they you are the shadow
of what was lost: once again:

  who knows what lurks in the heart of man:

In every home there is a dark passage,
Loneliness, grief, depression and marriage
They breathes soundly by your side: then the wreckage

Another year, another chapter, another longing
For skin hunger, waiting and awaiting:
Where does these emotion lead?
To deception, or tears,

So I am asking, what happen to my soulmate
The one with the locks that fits my keys,
and ,the keys  that fit his locks?

Now, I move alone in the dark unseeing,
as I move toward the door, I remember,
there is only one direction
And that is back to the warmth of my bed

Whilst I was walking down the street this morning
I tried to be polite and inconspicuous to a passing stranger

He stares directly into my eyes;
My brown eyes speak louder than my husky voice
without the spoken words or improvisation.

What was he looking for?
Did he like what he saw?

The pain, shame or a sense of connection
Love, is nowhere to be found in my eyes,

It's ruthless, it deems, it disappoints
By now we all know the stories about the pain
Of lost-love,

It begins with a smile
A kiss a warm embrace,
The tears and fears during the last years
of something that was once so beautiful..

Did he love the raven in my eyes?
Sorry stranger! ,
I played the game of love and lost
I paid my tithes, sorry stranger!

Caw, caw, caw!
Did the stranger love the looks of the raven in my eyes?

Changes
As people we are always asking for changes;
Spiritual, politically or just spontaneously
During the election a number of folks asked
and some even vote for changes
We hate, we love, and we deplore acts of violence
then and now:  Now it haunts most people:
Some even would still consider shaking his hand:
Some got what their asked for, and some still undecided:

Let Us Not Become the Evil We Deplore.” By Amy Goodman

He never goes under the covers: he just love to be exposed
A ***** is a *****: in his eyes: He might asked to see the
Birth certificate, but not the death certificate:
but never the **** kit, the yearbook inputs or the
country clubs initial membership lists:
Birth for him meant still in control: death gone from one’s sight:

I was chatting to a friend one day, I said to him imagine
that everybody on this earth woke up one day
To find zillion of dollars in their procession:
What would that meant to others: the loss of the power:
Money is the leveler that runs the world
The bad things that we done in our youngers years
Will one day comes back to haunts us

The statutes of limitation is just the statue
Time will not be forgotten: Memories lingers
The pain, the shame of being in a humiliated situation
we are living in a divided country
Because, of so much greed and bigotry:

A change is coming: and it's coming soon
who run the worlds Girls!!!

When I was teenager,
it was pens, papers and stamps,
  two week of waiting,
to see  if the  mailman would deliver
  those special letters from your
pen pals from around the world,

Nowadays it's Facebook, Instagram, whatapp
The Likes and dislikes,
disgraced and lambasting
Total strangers on the internet.
Whatever happened to the human race?

A

Louder than a silent scream
A deafening sound of silence
I saw the light inside of me dim each time;
You wish for me to be obedient
You said you love me. I couldn’t move
My heart race fast, I need to breathe

Never believe in allegiance, or infatuation
This leads to emotions that can’t be met.
Making fun of the clouds in the sky is more realistic
Without all the blissful test
Never believe in love; never want to feel the effects

It never worth the heartache;
I am a stubborn girl

We have been loving the same ******
all this time,
you thought he was your
I thought that he was mine,
Now, he’s all yours,
An error
Bittersweet blend of sorrow
~
My precious little angels
Now, it all comes to this
An end of an era
~
I know it never a good time to say adios
To the one you once love and adore
However, now is the right time to engrave his name?
on his tombstone
Here lies Mr. ****** all alone
~
We have been loving the same ******
All this time;
You thought he was yours
I thought he was mine
~
Breaking each other hearts
that lying **** ******
in Toledo Ohio

A sudden blow: and he laid still
His dreams and hopes: crush
What have he done:  poker face
He dropped the cheese for the shadow
His life flashed before her eyes:
It's hard without question,  to
see my brothers cry.

It’s so hard to hear the chanting and the weeping
As mothers, friends and total strangers
Come together to fight for justice,
It hard to see and review the audio tapes
As he lay dying:
" I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe".

We've known smoking cigarettes can ****
However, living in America of a different race
is more cancerous than lung cancer

Especially when the verdict always come back
"No conviction, no conviction",
He died of natural causes,
So much trouble up north of the Brooklyn bridge
Cry for justice,   cry for justice.

When everything is said and done
you logged on and went straight to my page of
poems the one, you thought was grammatically incorrect
verses of encouragement, verses of noticeable texts


I am a poetess: I am the daughter of a man who
chopped down mahogany trees just to earn a living
  to feed his big family: a mighty man was he
he was a person not to be reckoned with:
A wired pressure cooker: a ***** with a switch

I tell my story in form of words
I will compose them quite clearly, just follow the lines
Because, the tongue is more to be feared than my words
I am afraid of the ocean, it doesn’t speak my language
  It’s has a long history of chemical: Sea salt

Who’s to blame not the ocean, only me?
I go to visit it; it never comes to visit me:
So when everything is said and done,
Who logged on and came to visit who?

I thought that he was perfect for me
Because no one never laugh at my jokes
They sounded a lot funnier in my head,
But he laughs anyway, and once he laughs
I got thirsty for more, nobody knows what they
future holds, but I do remember
his snarling mad hatter laughter

Suddenly, one day he wanted out, he want
to spread his wings, so I let him fly.
I thought that he was perfect for me,
Because no one never laugh at my jokes

Some things sound funnier in your head
than when you say them out loud
I just had to let him go………………..>

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.

Second hand love:
Have I come this far to be a second hand love?
where is my rose, where is my morning smile,
where is my goodnight kiss and
where is my number one guy.

As a girl I survived the best way I know how
I would run errands for the neighbor
In exchange for a small change or food

My body frame size, my wild big eyes
Were the sign of malnourished relived childhood?
Hunger and Malnutrition are not the same
But in the eyes of child are hidden meanings

I want to write something about that era in time
But do I want to relive those day with a poem?

We make the Memories, so sad but so relived
That small bowl of corn meal Cou cou meant a lot to me
To my mother it meant shaming the family name

The tall wild pine tree saves me, from revealing the truth
a full stomach  had given me time to think about what not to say
About eating the neighbor’s food:

The internet have gave me this amber jewelry to create
and go back in time..
To a place to make things right
.

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

When I woke up this morning,
And thought of the things that bothered me yesterday
I smiled, because the past was closed behind me
The excess garbage that was piled in my head is no longer there
A new day, a new dawn
Today, you must love me like you seldom do.

I woke up this morning
And thought of the things that bothered me yesterday
I smiled, because the past was closed behind me

After last night’s rain the street
Smell like one of those booth peop holes on
42nd street:  Curiosities smear the cat:

This morning the sun is trying to make a
Break through: the pile of trash await
The landfill: just like the daily flushes
Of the unused pills:

We never give up. Our bodies are gradually dying,
but we ourselves are being made stronger each day
2 Corinthians 4:16:

Ten days to forget this cold: and dream of summer tides,
With a genuine smile, with gratification
I just want to forget this relentless extremely cold weather
not having to wait patiently for spring,
Which always leave me in apathetic state
  without my build in control: I am undone:
I struggle with my feelings, for my man’s servant
Open his eyes, LORD, so that he may see.

“Then the LORD opened the servant's eyes,
and he looked and saw …that I wasn’t really his Queen
but the ice  poet: his mere presence upsets me

*"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer." — Albert Camus