Sore fingers and a keen intellect,
With the poet’s pen, all will be well.

How to love the summer rain
that cold tingly feeling, but to
feel your arms around me,
I do remember that

The warmth of your lips against mine
I didn’t expected that
The sound of your skype voice makes my heart race
I turned up the volume just to heard you say my name

Or was it to tune out the tip, tap, tip, tap of the rain
on the window pane
But to feel your arms around me
Oh! how it warm me like the morning sun
and tingles me like the cold summer rain.

So what the different between you and I?
I will always love you more than the
Summer rain:

Human Hyenas**

Since the dawn of humanity, the narrative surrounding creation has often placed Adam at the center, positioning him as the architect of the enchanting yet elusive Garden of Eden. However, this romanticized view glosses over a fundamental truth: many women became disillusioned with the carefree dispositions and laid-back attitudes that men often exhibited. Over time, this disconnect led to a collective realization among women; they became increasingly frustrated with behaviors that stifled desire and intimacy in their relationships.

Now, in hindsight, it seems that the damage has been done—too many grievances accumulating without sufficient efforts to mend them. Our world, vibrant and diverse, belongs to all of us, representing a tapestry woven from various perspectives and experiences. It transcends the simplistic archetypes of the average Tom, ****, and Harry. However, the mutual respect that once characterized interactions between men and women has eroded, giving way to a reality where the notion of a man's dominion—founded on outdated theatrical standards—is no longer viable.

Instead, we find ourselves navigating a tumultuous landscape, rife with chaos and confusion, where differing mental attitudes and perspectives collide. In this fractured society, phrases like "I was here first" echo with divisiveness,

Laugh, and the world laughs with you
Weep and you weep alone
.
He walked into a crowded room and fires his weapons
While humility is considered strength, humiliation is hurtful
ego stands down. Shame is private, humiliation is public:*
There was only one thing left for him to do, and you know what
For the earth will be a better place, without so many psychopaths

The government is on the warpath, the vets are mentally ill
Left wing, right wing, the mental effects of war continues
day after day , after day.
Their transition from battle to home becomes an internal struggle.
There are no winners, only the good die young

If We Speak of the Hurricane



We think of past storms, the aftermath

The deep wailing of the crowd

The interview of the bystanders

And here comes that sad looks

of the homeowner faces

And there it stood that uprooted fallen tree,

Inches away from their house

And that when we know,  

It was the rightful thing to do

Listening to the voice of God:



In the wind of the solemn sound

I remember the falling Palins,

The rusty galvanizes that blanket the streets

Where the birds of prey nested:

And once again, we listen to the voice of God

In the wind of the solemn sound

If we speak of the past storms,  

and chat about hurricanes disasters

I remember how the winds pressed on the

Apartment window, forcing it way in.

But I listen to the voice of God

As I heard an uprooted tree, clash down

On the rows of park car, before the alarms sound

Scattering debris, block the drains

Water filled the lonely streets,

And once again, we cry out to God

The volcanoes, now hurricane Elsa  

Why We??

I’m back once more.

I spent a long night contemplating which people to remove from my life, the ones who drag me down.
It’s time for a transformation in 2026, a chance to relieve the pressure in my chest.

Like a Maidenform bra that left an imprint,  
What a relief it is to let them go.  
My poem captures both my spoken and silent reflections.  
You may hear my island accent as you go through it.

This past year has been good for me, despite the COVID-19 pandemic that struck in 2020.  
I had a breakdown yesterday, but today I feel somewhat clear-headed. I can truly recognize certain people for who they are: bullies.

I’m refreshing my social circle for my new friends. I haven't shed many tears this year, as I’ve cut back on gambling and focused more on saving, which is positive. Unfortunately, my *** life has plummeted like the temperature in New York to freezing.

My poetry stays authentic and unrefined, yet my smile has grown friendlier towards strangers. I believe I’m starting to appreciate humanity again.

I still have a long journey ahead to rebuild something called trust. I spent another long night reflecting on my strengths and weaknesses.
Growing up, I cherished the biblical tales that resonated with me.
In many instances, the weaker characters are often taken advantage of by the stronger ones; being vulnerable can lead to exploitation, diminishing our self-worth and power. For what? A fleeting moment of intimacy?

Did you notice my tears in my writing? No?
It's not about what you glance at, but rather what you perceive—Thoreau.(quote)

While you gaze up at the ceiling, mulling over your thoughts, the three parts of your brain are functioning together.  
Nevertheless, weaknesses can cause them to drift apart, making me feel as if I have lost touch with myself.

Today is for me to hear my voice. Farewell, my lover; greetings, new friends. Hello, new friends.

I am a poet. From me, you will get only the best
It’s called persistent, not defeat
a roller of criticism moves me,

However, to watch my surfer friend Andy out on the wave
driven with the wind, those moments of the great madness
  makes wonderful poetic lines, I sense the rush, his madness,
and his sense of honor.

I shall therefore joyfully boast in my sufferings my friends
However, when you disrespect the poet, you disrespect the art.
you cut your roots at the source, and your thoughts will grow silent,
I am so blessed with the spirit; I am never stumped by fears

Yet, if you hold my poems against the mirror
the mirror would never read the contents backwards,
My messages to the world have no secret.

I am your poet, not your puppet on a string
My words are louder than clappers,
Like a heavily smoke-filled room,
My words might gag you,
because my words speak wisdom

This poet is not ashamed to write from her heart
My poems is like most nightmare transcending
our fears for the best.
I am breathing, I am writing.
  this is the new age of poetry

Humid August Morning

Packed in my mind lies, all betrayals of my past
It shows on my face like a ****** mask
Over the passing years nothing seems to change
Not even my wore out tattoos nicknames,
I seek answer; I search for peace,
  I am caged, I am seized
 With my innermost thoughts and convictions

What’s my purpose, which one of my petals is going to fall now?
Who’ going to step in and staged an intervention?
I am caged, I am seized, I am so loving ******.
Surrounded by happiness, laughter and some forgiveness
Once again, here I am taking another summer test.

  Open bars, aged faces, cold frosty Banks beers
An islander tradition nothing changes,
not even my tattoo nicknames, Bajan Yankee
Caribbean Queen and Meany heartbreaker,

However, when the laughter fades,
and the music stop in the most romantic setting
A black heart, a broken soul, makes old memories resurfaces;
I see so much, I heard so much and
I overthink so much about worldly things

How can I not go back to the land of the flying fish?
Or where the Bank beers are four for ten
Or where the rooster wakes us up at the crack of dawn,
where humble people just smiling
and saying hello makes a different.

The annoying mosquito buzzes under the protected nets
Till I reach for a can of repellant with anger and yelled who’s next!

I‘ve heard the annoying barks of the neighbor dogs
The unsettling morning news, but nothing as soothing
As watching a black bird singing in the apple trees.
Speaking to the heart of the humans souls:
Once again I am an Island Girl

*See how the nature trees, flowers, grass grow in silence
See the stars, the moon and the sun; we need to be able to touch souls

Despite the surf conditions
I am going in, I am having the
last splash of the summer,
That’s filled with swimming,
the fragrance of the sunscreen,
and the laughter of the playing children
Despite the rolling of the thunder vikings

The dance of those umbrellas,
to the musical sound of the wind
I am going in,

The sea and salty breeze,
Would no longer moisturize my face,
The sand would no longer, tickle my toes
and soon the frigid winter chill will swallow us whole
Leaving the sandy beaches, completely deserted
With the remains of dead Sanderlings birds on the shore
and no more three-toed imprints left behind for us to enjoy.

so, I am going in the water

journal entry Poetry..
I am not ready to face this man
Who broke my heart into squares?
I am not ready to look him full in his lying eyes
And asked him why did he made my eyes overflow
I am not ready as yet to asked him if he remembers
  the birth of his child, the signal from the moon,
the last Friday night of fish and chips
Wailing and speaking in tongues,
being strip down to my waist as
you held my hand and encourage me to be strong!!!!!
That trauma was only for a very short period,
My broken hearts will never heal,
because of whom I invited into my soul
However, to reshape my heart again will take courage, but to
Forgive, sounds good
Forget, I’m not sure I could
They say time heals everything
But I’m still waiting… Quote
Just before he said “How are you Are you okay?
To slam the door in the viper face once again is a step to healing.

Who know me best,  

Who know me, (me)

When I fall in love

I fall hard, or am I mistaken his love

For candy on my eyes, for now,

Or is this the real thing,

I know the truth,  

Am I in total denial of wanting.

Denial has a dark side:

I have a past, of repeating,

The same mistakes,  

Why can’t I see passed those brown eyes,

The saddest part, he hasn't taken me to cloud nine

Or touch my G spots, or glorify me,

What is it about him, that make me thirsty,

I cry so much last night, I cried  

Cry of loneliness, ****** deprivation,

I even cry after ***, they called it the

drowning in a sea of feel-good chemicals like oxytocin and dopamine,  

But it never happened, the done deal so why am I crying?

I will blame this one on my booster shot,

What the hell they injected into my body?

I am seeing things in a different form of light.

Or is my lack of trust?  

I cry even more, seeing his ringtone

And refused to take the called,

Just wanted him to reach for me instead,

I wonder if he has any idea, of what he is

Doing to me: I am a woman,

I need to be touch.  

How can I overlook this jealousy?

And focus, on me, and not on you.

Your needs are being meet,

I feel like I am pregnant, again, waiting  

For that little life inside of me to

Come out and love me. Wholeheartedly

I buried my father:

In the St. Augustine Cemetery
I visit at the old gravesite of the deceased annually
I saw the quiet grave keeper still standing there looking dazed and confused
By the looks of things:
My father resting place
still soaks up all the tears

My mother and other siblings said to me
That to visit any one grave site wasn’t their kind of thing

I buried my father underground: It have been so long
Since then, the birds would come to the house of my father
Looking for breadcrumbs from days old bread
The dead will not be forgotten, his name will lives on

When I was a toddler, he fed me white rice with butter
Sprinkled with black pepper and grated cheese:
With my weak voice I was say “thank you: he was so please

I buried my father in the St. Augustine cemetery
It’s one of the saddest places to visit,
Unlike seasonal passes tickets
So adjacent, those graves: so annoying those wild crickets

He might be far away from his home,
but not from our hearts
Everything on his grave seem so square and flat,
But the most outstanding piece was the letters that read
R.I.P:  what I saw was (Rescue Innocent Perry)

Sometimes, I wondered about the dead
About their done deals: their final feast
I buried my father there, but not his memories

I saw the old mahogany tree still standing tall
the pieces of kindling wood, he made for grilling,

I will  always remember him, and I know he might be
Thinking of me, his poetic daughter especially on that day
when I accompany him to cut the branches from the
old Mahogany tree, just to make backyard wood fire
For the family breakfast, lunch and supper
I buried my father: the naïve share cropper:

“The fact that I can plant a seed and it becomes a flower, share a bit of knowledge and it becomes another's, smile at someone and receive a smile in return, are to me continual spiritual exercises.”*


― Leo Buscaglia

It only seems like yesterday,
When I look at the camera and took this selfie
The waves rush up against our feet,
everything seem to be complete and carefree,
Tonight I ponder, I hold onto the memories

This is not a goodbye poem, this is a memorable piece
Accepting loneliness without judging;
Accepting failure without, feeling humiliated
I can smell the sea air;
I can taste the salt in my tears tonight

Everyone smiles in the same language
Not everyone hurts the same way

I cast a backward look—how the times changed

To the beautiful face in the stroller
She Smile, I smiled, the guardian frown
A child is not born to hate
Hate is taught:
Hate is the new formula in their supplements
home is where it multiply so easily:
Let not occupy kinship bias
Defused the bigots:
Save our innocent children:
No child is born to hate;
~~~~
*World's Wit and Wisdom
Children have never been good at
listening to their elders, but they
have never failed to imitate them.
James Baldwin, 1924 - 1987

I kept seeing Derek Chauvin posture,
so casual, so photogenic

Nine Minutes Of agony, as he squeeze the light out of George Floyd
On May 25, 2020, George Floyd, a 46-year-old black man,
was killed in Minneapolis, Minnesota
during an arrest for allegedly using a counterfeit bill
.
I just cannot get the image of George Floyd
Out of my mind, while others might see the knees of death

I saw a history of abuse, I saw a revolution,  
Apartheid, Doctor King, speeches’
I saw a poet pen, fumbles for words,
I saw emotions of my words turning to why?
A another movie in the making,
I saw an unknown man and his family
About to make history in the making;

I saw a rainbow, with the rain,
I saw blood in the streets of America,
I saw the scar on my ancestors backs fading
Somehow at this moment
I can see the Promised Land emerging as
I Stand in my showers or is it tears?

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,

I don't have any emotions anymore
Sometimes, I don’t know if I’m having a feeling
Or I am dreaming, while I am awake?

Some might think that my mind
is exploring my emotions
while looking for happiness,

So I decided to bake a melodrama cake
Nope! I meant mel-o-cream butter pound cake
The ingredient is my path to getting my feelings back
Egg, butter, flour, sugar, raisins,
baking powder and a little milk
I just want to transfer my feeling,
with some logical thinking..


  Somewhere, deep within a non stanzaic,
and syllabic poem forms by the minute
It’s going to trend like this cake,
which is going to be bake with love

Poetry is everywhere,
creaming my butter and sugar is poetic
because butter and sugar never stick together. It also
reminds me of Nana’s golden brown patties, tasty and spicy
Adding the eggs, nutmeg, baking powder, brings out the
natural female traits in this Island girl,
without my empowering dreads

The raisins and the baking powder remind me of
The Rise of Radical African American Activism,
And all that rises, rise in due degree
so poetry is everywhere
it's  in everything we say and do.

I doubt,
I woke up this morning with doubt
I doubt I would ever find happiness
In a spike smoothie
I am being driven more toward;
the sea madness

I doubt I will ever take that trip to California
Or print my name on the wall of Jericho
because of the Israelites;

I doubt I would ever buy that $3000 Gucci bag
Just to empty out my account
I doubt I will ever swim in the ocean, again
my courage always rises with
every attempt to intimidate me.

I doubt I will ever walk the lonely street late at night again
If a pervert **** his mother,
No doubt what he would do to me
For him I am a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.
I doubt I would ever be able to write a sonnet, because
The feeling of frustration comes as a result
of my mixed emotional states
My parents doubted that I would have never made it this far
Because most micro preemie baby never survived

I doubt, doubt would never leave my side
Through the pain, through the doubt, here I am
today the doubtful unknown poet

I remember the exact moment
when I locked my heart,
I heard the sweet melody
once again in my favorite songs
I felt my skin tightening against
the harshness of the world
And it felt so great, so delightful
no more pain, no more tears,

I never want to conquered love;
I never wanted to feel trapped
I just want to live; I just wanted to be free
I took my life back, and I slowly regain my sanity
I cast out those demons, and then I wrote a poem,
About the demons, love, and lost and my wildest dream

I am now sleeping in a dream of summer weather
As I awake to a wonderful good morning phrases
A phrase, I had lost so long ago,

The caroling birds outside my window
What a beautiful sight?
What a beautiful morning

Mine Salutations in the morning are now like vitamins
Good morning, good morning, good morning strangers
Take these vitamins with you folks, remember this poem
And do remember me.

If this is no poem then:

Then it must be a good **** during a rainy night
Because it a rush, a rush to get to the finish line
Legs stretching higher than a frog most heroic leap;
That’s when you have to admire how terrific the organs
Can be during moment of ecstasy:
If this is no poem then

Donald Trump is not taking residency in the white house
Where Politics is still a multifaceted word: according the wikipedant
And hate intolerance, greed, revenge, violence, famine, disease,
Continues to be the number one problem in the world today:
If this is no poem then

There are no use for poetic devices, and my feeling shouldn’t
Get in the way of the truth, of setting me straight or free.
Poetry comes from the island, where the native spoke
Dialect like they don’t give a ****. .about the language called English
Breaking up words into sugar cane…and making raw brown sugar lyrics

If this is no poem then

It ought to be: or take the road to Bombay:
And see if the folks there really love poetry…
or give a rat *** about they missing teeth.

Cow itch circle the hills
Picking up speed, what a nuisance:
My body became numb: the torturous seeds
The native never seem move: by the “muckleheads”.
The itch and the sand flies: a duel team

I was the victim: The vice was on my back
Under house arrest, a meltdown I was so trap
It was time to leave all of the seedpods behind
Fever, malaise, drenching sweats and chills:

I remember once I told a fan, about my kind of therapy
My morning’s session, of cleansing the mind
A blast of my past: the uneven dots on my temple walls
Am I making a break through, nope I never had closure,

The groom wore red, on his special day.
I was the one that wore velvety black,
but I celebrated their reunion with a tall glass of
Ca’ del Bosco Cuvée Prestige Brut, Franciacorta DOCG.
Wine:

I’m far too clever to be taken likely:
So, I  let  my poetry writing do its own disciplined

**"If you can’t be a poet, be the poem. – David Carradine"

I Hear America sniveling
A nod to Walt Whitman,

I hear America sniveling, life of hardships
Those are the nurse’s aide, each sniveling
looking tired and worn out
Petrified of being on the morning shift
The Porter sniveling as he drags
the fifthly mop down the corridor
The “Don’t walk signs.
Which everyone seems to ignore

The cooks crying as he wakes up early searching for dietary old ladle
Just to meet the breakfast rush, with sleep still in his eyes: his life seem to be a lie

The doorman sniveling as the workers rush through the doors
The looks on their faces, his hands stay closer to the company Tasers
The foreigner taxi cabs drivers speed a headed of each other for two dollars ride
As they tries their best to form a complete sentence..
Knowingly, that his spoken words is grammatically incorrect

The babies sniveling as they mother drop them off at the sitters,
  Poor babies wish they could stay all day in their mother’s arm
The poor man sniveling, can be heard through the land, America
The rich man broad smiles as he killed another elephant for their ivory
Takes images proclaiming victory

The sadness of the hardest workers, or the elderly folks in pain
Shows an undivided world of tough hardships and poor leaderships
Each one to his or her own self, like homeless man Robert in the rain
We wakes up each day under the same sun, the same cruelty and injustice
the testing nuclear weapons in the atmosphere  since 1945 and just recently another test
And we continues this repeat, and the more we feel and see or smile turn into frowns
I heard America sniveling:

*Even in hardship, God’s goodness prevails.” E
― Todd Stocker,

Do not pretend that you don’t like it
when we have mind ***
you sigh! and said to yourself
“I just don’t get it..
That was so awesome, so real
Who need them?

My past is in my attaché case protected by number codes
Under my favorite vanity table,
where the dust build up into shapely forms
I want to lift the veil and open the case. But
this wave  of sadness always comes over me.

It’s always asking of me to forgive and to forgets,
Let bygones, be bygones, and
move on to more important things
At the end of each year,
I smile because my heart gets stronger
by mid-June, I sometimes take a peek,
at the contents, and I move on
I gave a little and I take a little,
but as you know that the story of love

Sometimes, I fantasize about a time travel
Sometimes, I just want to self-correct my mistakes
With one match stick, ka-boom!

To corners the truth isn’t always easy.
You never find yourself until you face the truth.
said Pearl Bailey
My past is in my attaché case protected by a hidden code.

I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing
It must have the same effects as walking on the moon
It must trend faster than a meteor as it  hurdles through cyber space

I refused to love any man, who dislikes my poetry,
My man must support my passion ..
not only the warmth of my body
but the passion within this poetess, my secretive mind he must be able to balance:
Without wondering why a woman like me is so naturally secretive
I am always embracing the dark side of my creativity
Dropping little hints here and there throughout the years,

Sidney   J. Harris once said something that left pondering thoughts
He said “When he hears somebody sighs,
'Life is hard,' he’s always tempted to ask them, 'Compared to what?'
I would simply say dog-gone it: Compared to struggling poets whose tries to make a living as a writer

While an upcoming rapper like Chief Keef
signed a several-million dollar deal
with offending lyrics in today music industries:

I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing,
With lots of intense emotion bursting through each line:
Because a poem can’t exist without a poet's multiple voices
and most of all his divine missions

"I have a name and it’s Jaylen Foster
I am two weeks old.
But the size of my big feet
Will foretell my future:
big things to come

I am the third generation of Fosters
What the world need now is love sweet love
It is the new normal, the beginning of a bad ending
Social distancing, mask trending, and facetime,

My new world..  Six feet apart, no options
Only restriction: for them or for me??
The truth for our futuristic endeavors is to
Wear a mask, or stay at home..

I saw the smile, on her face, her laughter is contagious  
The joy of being a grandmother, pretty Joy for Paula
Proud moments for my father and mother..
a new beginning for a grandfather: David

Love and happiness for a two weeks old me
And distance kisses for cousin: Annie
Annie said the meaning of my name is Joy

My grandmother's voice says nothing can surprise her.
My grandmothers’ voice, says wisdom,
My grandmother’s laughter is genuine,
When it comes to me.. Jaylen Foster
Keep the pictures coming?
Meant keeping Joy alive

His hair is short and white
Twilight years of what counseling and wisdom brings
We all must cross over;
However, why must we accept the aging process?

Scented with coconut oil, his hair shines
Brighter under the Caribbean sunrise
I wish for him to texturizes it,  
Without losing his identity, without damaging
The roots of the follicles succulent extremity

Nervously, he runs his fingers through the ends
Making it seems like  if everything is alright.
For me, I long to see his youth again
The Afro, the look, the seventy trends;
Someone, up North love and adore her friend

Marry me  a sugar daddy

It about stability and a sense of security
And ways of staying happy and not about the money
I need my life to shine bright like diamond
It might be critical, it might be political
All that matters, is where I lay my head

I am a happier with my decision
Because when I go to hell
I am going Gangnam style
With a wide range of emotions; Andante
   I just am going to marry me sugar daddy.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
The good life is not only about the money

Multiples nightmares in one night
I tumble out of bed and stumble to the kitchen
and there it was an empty dish
a ***** fork, pie crumbs everywhere:
and flat-out on the couch,
your snoring mouth hanging slack;
my last piece of pie, my last piece of pie

In an Instant does more than just re-tell...
Freddy Krueger, theme sound played around in my head

God sees him, I see him. He is a lonely man
Love is a fly on the wall, a secure padlock on the door
A bag of dog food for the Bruce and Princess,

When love is in the heart, it can’t be altered
The soul beam: he would always be the laughing child
In her father fondest memories before
  his adolescent mind was corrupt by evil

Loves makes the parent proud,
love produce a health mind of control
the laughing child would feel no shame,
he would blessed his mother breast,
Without the slightest thought of ******

Some share the night alone in bed,
Some cuddled in with their mother
Love like that is forbidden,
If only he could escape from this house of ******,
where a parent only love herself
and see the younger husband in her only son

he need that inner strength to save himself from the touch of evil
False hopes, a rigid mind, a corrupt soul
Some share the night alone pondering,
How does her church feel about her sharing the night with her son
Who’s thirty one.

P.S
Satan's false kingdom, False nature, a false expectation

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

I never heard my mother told
My father that she loves him
Perhaps after seven sibling,
She did not had the strength to utter the words

Most of us as women sing the blues in our own way
Am I a fool to have loved you?
I wrote a piece about a mother and her son
Time together, from birth to end of his life at twenty-three/

The light that once gleamed from my eyes
the golden beam that upstage/
my caramel cheeks/
my rude lips upon which he pressed his own hungrily/
—my naïve body, darker than the night:/
Rejected his hours of longing:
I just can’t forget that day he walked away/

As a young adult, I guess,
it wasn’t meant to be:
Today I am calm,
Yesteryears I was uncharmed/ by his touch/

That, poem of mines that never was published
Was not meant to be/ it was restrains
Deep inside my fragile heart/

I uses to observes my friends relationships
With their men friend/boyfriend/
Total departure/ total disasters/
Dishonesty is food to a relationship/

But I hate  it/ FYI … my friends fools…
When love and hate collide
You just have to compose a poem/
Or a song/ even go shopping

I never heard of Tariff until recently


For those who liberate the caged bird,
They also liberate themselves.
Individuals who instigate conflict for,
Monetary benefits will ultimately undergo reformation in due course.
History often repeats itself many times,
Yet some individuals fail to heed their warnings.
The Great Wall of China was damaged by workers
As they were trying to make shortcuts to get to the other side.
The Trojan Horse was constructed with strategic thinking.
Similarly, the Berlin Wall was built as a barrier.

Today marks a competitive phase between
Temu and Shien are notable entities in the clothing industry.
It remains to be seen if they will address the challenges and opportunities within the sector effectively.
The term "Tariff" has become familiar to me over the past few months.
Shall we worry about them; shall we give in? Shall we seek solutions?
Only divine wisdom can guide us during challenging times.
For those who liberate the caged bird,
They also liberate themselves.

The night was made for loving
But the days are said to be
The death of a poet’s eye before,
He says what has to be said.

There’s no heat in the city,
Only depression and misery
All around town, no garbage collection,
Only rental units with
high vacancy rates seems counterintuitive,

The colours of the disposable bags
Said, sacks and waste, bed bugs, and roaches,
So take your landlord to court and come out on top
Said the poet, before death trap us

As I drove around the city, my heart is oppressed with
anguish to the very point of death that surround us.
That awful display on every city block.

Homeless men and women urinate, defecate,
Behind, the doors and alleys,
we need a wind of change today
the night not so much matter

However, it’s the day after everything comes to light,
Another lost soul, another day to push forward
Is it illegal to be homeless, when trying to try to stay alive?
The Devil will try to stop anything good!

Inevitable
Situations that is unavoidable.
A little nod to Charles Bernstein


A college without students
Facebook without members
*** without a partner
A man without woman
A keyboard without the keys
A bath without soap
Donald Trump without passion
A twitter account without his followers
A night without rest
A day without snapchat
A bank without money
A soap opera without a plot
A Rally against poverty
A poem without rhyme
A nurse without the doctor
A train without the tracks
A death without weeping
A horse without its carriage
A car without its wheel
A wingman without his buddy
A lotto ticket without a dream
A day without a crime
A lady without her *****
A politician without ambition
A bar without alcohol
A patient without insurance
A day without rain
A memory without recollection
Childbirth without fear
A judge without the jury
A school without teachers
A nightmare without vision
A bed without headboard
Sesame Street without bid bird
Football without violence
A seamstress without training
A story without a dialogue
A baby without its mother
An election without voters
A couple without children
Inevitable
~~~~

From the warmth of her womb
to a wooden coffin
the cloth of her **** laid lifeless
Gone to soon, gone too soon

The pain was more than she could bare
after losing her only son
to the rough street of Chicago
where the kingpin rules
and the prosecutes parade
the dark corridors in dark suits

It's a mother worse nightmare,
when the law enforcements,
is train to **** and asked question after.

In fear of their lives,
however, two wrongs,
cannot equal to right.

Our judicial system defenses team toss
them back to the mean street
with only criminals intents on their minds
another careless proceeding gone wrong.

so, here I am
back to the crime scene

The Story as I Understand It
Leonora Speyer

In my opinion, I understand the story. From biblical times to now, as I write a little note to Leonard Speyer, I believe that Eve was misled by Adam all along. Adam was approached by the Serpent long before Eve came to the Garden of Eden. The Serpent knew that he was no match for her, so he intended to bring her down. Her looks intimidated him, and her beauty was unmatched. Beauty without brains is a myth; she had what it took. Man is weak because he is easily influenced by external temptations and lacks the strength to resist them.
The apple in the garden was for showmanship. It wasn't real. Did they mention if the birds picked at the apples? From experience, a bird would pick at the apples, so if they did, they sinned too. There were nine of us in the home. My mother would willfully leave money, food, and other stuff to tempt us to see which of us would eat it or take it, knowing it was forbidden to take things without asking permission. Today, women are being blamed for the weakness of men. The more the blames, the stronger women become. The apple was just the key to the knowledge of good and evil: curiosity kills the cat. The apple was the way out of the garden to go and seek. Those two were the Gen Z of biblical times in my opinion. Adam and Eve were considered the pioneers or trendsetters of their era.

," 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

An old friend of mine, once asked of me
to mailed, one of my ****** to him
To him, it meant a lot.
however, for me this meant that mailing
an image of my beauty was a blessing for him
but for him to display my white thong,
on his easel seems enticing at that moment in time
was I expanding his ****** collection?
Now that’s the question

I felt my body rise, when he kiss my lips that summer
my unforgiving heart, has no pride

Its seem laughable now, however
Yesterday is History, Tomorrow a Mystery,
Today is a gift, tomorrow is a blessing,
I am now an avow woman in this matter