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………………..>

On a chilly December day in Manhattan, I had just finished a job interview. Despite my frustration from two years of job searching, I thanked the almighty for another day. As I walked down 54th Street, I noticed a long queue stretching from here to Halifax. Curiosity got the better of me, and I joined the line without knowing what awaited me.

A white lady with a clipboard emerged from the building, escorting a few people at a time. When it was my turn, she scrutinized me from head to toe and instructed me to follow her. In a room, she handed out a test sheet, giving us only twenty minutes to complete it. The sheet contained around 40 questions, including math problems and vocabulary sentences. I finished it in less than 20 minutes, wondering what would come next.

After waiting again, she returned and said, “We’re hiring for Macy’s department stores across the city. What hours can you work, Miss Lander?” I hesitated and replied, “Morning shifts.” She assured me that I had aced the test and then dropped the bombshell: “You’ll be better off in the shoe department—not clothing or beauty, but shoes.”

With a forced smile, I thanked her. Who knew that a cold day and a mysterious queue would lead me to the shoe department at Macy’s? Life has its surprises, doesn’t it? 😄

Like whisky to a newbie
She said *** with her is so amazing,
Should her lovers take her words for granted?
  to the echo chamber, an invitation of uncertainty awaits
on the others side of love.

Just like any property a ****** is still a risky investment
Just like any investment could be,  
Another extremely shameless plug
As she pumps up the volume,
Like a female rebel on the run from the law

They love everything about this Island beauty
Like whisky to a newbie, her poetic euphoric vibes
  take them higher and higher, as her fans dance the night away

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jgf_I9vepDo

Lillian’s Echo

In the dayroom’s dim embrace, Lillian sat—a survivor etched in time. The air clung to stories, whispered secrets, and the lingering scent of suffering. She, the one-character legend, spun her tales—prose blabber, raw and unfiltered.

Born into the system’s cold arms, Lillian emerged as an adult onto Brooklyn’s unforgiving streets. There, she tasted the bitter brew of inhumanity—the kind that seeps into bones, leaving scars unseen.

Abortions etched memories on her soul. Each child, born or unborn, imprinted on her heart. Tears flowed freely among the day roomers, their lives force-fed with drugs until the final breath. Neglect and abuse danced in shadows, haunting their fragile existence.

Lillian’s own children—thirteen souls conceived in the crucible of ****. Some lost to the system, others to her desperate choices. Abortion, a relentless companion, etched its refrain: “You will never forget.”

Ms. Smaldone, wise and weathered, shared her truth. Money, she warned, was no legacy for offspring. Instead, travel—imbibe life’s nectar before the curtain falls. Merril Lynch riches crumbled when sickness struck, and family greed devoured her nest egg.

Lillian listened, her eyes reflecting pain. She vowed to seize life’s moments, to honor the lost and the forsaken. Four west day roomers, souls adrift, yearned for salvation. May they rest in peace, their echoes woven into Lillian’s prose.

Life has no guarantees
We can’t sit back and believe
That life is perfect
There is an action, there is a reaction
There is no perfect poem:
there is no perfect world

Poetry comes from within, Poetry is all around us
Sometimes we see perfect images
But without the poetry insight
It would feel like *** without love:

We just have to listen to silence to find real poetry.
Poetry walks the Brooklyn Street lacking clarity
Poetry sits amongst the congregation grasping:
back alleys and subways cars waiting,
but each in its own order to recite their observation.

We just have to listen to silence to find real poetry,

We just have to listen: the world is changing……

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.

Now my hands buried
In my pant, my hair all mated
Resting on my warm:
In the back of my head
"The ***** is an altar, and the ***** hairs are the flames upon the altar."(quote)
resting on my warm...was your imaginary hands,
Your notification startles me
A cold bed, noisy neighbors
And all I want was you.....

You are my one and only desire,
I crave for your body to connect  with my soul
Your heart, and yours only yours(quotes)

July 8th, 2022, I fly over the cuckoo’s nest

Here I am today with you feeding my addiction
this admiration without love is the fruit of reflection

Your values, my custom, and my abilities to comprehend:
One day you will search through the lonely earth for me,
However, would I be there
,
Would I at the moment in time care?
My library card is overdue/ or it my libido (😊
Don’t make me beg, don’t make me cheat

My friends said to me,
The sweetest lips deserve a kiss
But whom am I to ask for this (quote)Pj.)
My true confession of a low sX.s .s drive, chick.

Looking at losing me

It’s the insides that turn, as I ***** the hate
Me there in pastel, doing the task: unfeeling
Room 400-448.....
In my pockets I carry the purple gloves,
I have a little sense of humor for the Putin’s outcasts
And zero tolerance for the ungrateful faces

 I regrets the years of lying back and letting opportunities passed me by.

Paralyzed with fear, the stench of death, sores my eyes.

   My childhood years and home seems hallowed, pure, in comparison
To those rooms, of horror, I am never smiling, only speaks when spoken to

The Likes and dislike relationship between the downtrodden and me
Are based solely on a professional level:
The place of my birth haunts me sometimes,
But yet I regret at time for leaving: while I feud at life

My memories are so dear to my heart, without being biased
My resume, which is to say is impressive, however, my caramel color
Was my downfall, not enough privilege?
Not enough financial opportunity to break through?

Here I am daily putting on a united front like a true trooper
If you ask thousands like me, Should I keep my feeling to myself?
Should I toss the purple gloves aside for a keyboard, pen and paper?
Some said that I should be grateful and not be resentful:

To be on the clock nine to five: for what low income testing
Should I be happier? I just cannot
Not on their clocks

If my love for you were like diamonds
It would have been no cause for a divorce
I would have treasure it for the unity of its love
I would have praise the colorless crystalline form of pure carbon
The power it holds: The uniqueness of its colors,
And the authentic charisma in others it creates:

Just like the diamonds, we would have been unbreakable
That is why my love for you were not like diamonds
My love was more like a snow cone in Alaska
This melted faster than any glacier ice
.
Some might believe that feelings and thoughts are different
But I set them aside anyway to focus on our love
Anyway, It still didn’t matter…

**We were born to be real. Not to be perfect

To feel the morning sun upon your face,
To be awaken with the kiss of the morning sunshine,
The sound of the birds chirping an unknown melody
Human voices, of laughter from far away,
Foreign tones without the titles,
Somehow, you manage to walked to the bathroom
First thought, where am I? How did I get here?
Why am so alone?


My poem always has a meaning,
My soul is tired, my soul is loss
Rubbing the palm of my hands together
Doesn’t seem to work this time:
It’s best that I reached for a glass of wine
Life can take us, or break us,
Lord whom can I trust?
I don’t need anyone to love me
I often whisper under my breath
But when the breath whisper back
Girlfriend, this life of ours is merely a test
a crazy ride dude, a crazy ride this
thing called life…no update, no update:

Cleansing my Aura with a good write
A good version of my inner thoughts
Without burning my candle at both ends
My friends…..my poems always have a meaning.

~~
*My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -
It gives a lovely light." Ones of Millay’s open stanza

Louder than a **** in a silent room
louder than an thunder roll
louder than a deaf mute
or a woman during labor
louder than cows on the pasture
or a wailing of a baby's cry
louder than a siren on a police cruiser
Louder than a fireman truck racing to a fire
louder than a carpenter who accidental nail his finger to the floor
louder than a chairman at a board meeting
as he try to get the crowd to come to order
louder than an angry mob in Washington after the Federal building shut down
louder than a preacher without the microphone
louder than I on grandparent's day
that's how loud the bigots barks

I opened the back door toward the two o’clock sun
The day was winding down; the trees were blowing in the wind:
Long row of school buses: waiting for dismissal

I wish that he was here with me: Each and every day
Hangouts video chat is good and it’s bad: why must I rate them call?
Sometimes, I just don’t get this build in operator at all

I can feel your presence; I could sense your pain
A mile across the ocean: until we link up again

What do we have beside the modern gadgets: lots of emptiness?
Within our heart we search for the right song:  a soothing melody
of love and relaxation. Inner peace we gladly seek
Happiness will follow: before I cry myself to sleep

These same brown eyes will smile again in the morning
Just for you to see, just like all my thoughts
Some, naughty and some nice

I am so filled with happiness: I am so enticed by lust
I shall slowly close my Samsung I pad: and think of
Love in paradise of summer 2016,

i decided  that love meant nothing to me
did my research, had my share of rejection
took the wrong path, almost

Allowed Satanism to enter my life:
it felt like i was seeking,  seeking, seeking
but i always whispered  ,
my God is real, my God is real
he is real in my heart, 
 I felt the pinch of a pin,
my knees buckle under, and i kept on saying
what the ****,  what was i doing ,
my God is real
how did i end up in a place, like that :

as i  reflected, i came to this conclusion that it was for love
love for us, love for the family, love for the union.
But, surely it wasn’t,
I  never truly experience love,
Or toe curling ******:  only burning pain,
I decided that love meant nothing to me,

Did my research, had my share of rejection,
Took the wrong path,
almost sign into the Satanism camp
Seeking, looking for something, lost love,
Many winters, spring,
summer fall and back to autumn
Still no peace within,
love meant nothing to me

It was hope that lifts me up;
I had asked  God  for only one thing
And that was to dry my tears, and lesson my fears,
Somedays, i felt like screaming, when loneliness
Tries to get me down:  
then i remember that love means
Nothing to me…..



,

My beauty isn't all it appears to be,
Look into my eyes, and tell me what you see
A little love, a little mystery, a little of everything
A little love, a little mystery, a little of everything
It's mine and it's ours are not the same thing.

I want coffee, and you want tea
The heart knows what it wants,
And the hearts want a connection,
instead of a stent surgery.

Love, trust, surrender and peace follow in this order
Love is confusing, love is a thief
Look into my eyes, or read my tea leaves
Love, trust, surrender and
Peace, follow in this order.

To all those who goes crazy every time
They heard the word “I love you”
You all need some kind of help;
I will forgive any child under two
Because they are learning and
They brain are like sponge
they soak up new words , phrases and
images for their memory bank

It’s funny how sometimes the people you'd take a bullet for,
are the ones behind the trigger." Quote

when we love, we immediately change the path
in our brains, we crave, we seek attention,
we become addicted :

I remember a long time ago,
When my bff and I would hang out together
We were happier and free will individuals

until she allowed those words from  a man
to get into her head “I love you
the same man broke her heart,
and it almost killed her:

when we love, we toyed with our brain:
to all those who goes crazy every time
you heard the word “ I  love you:

Think of Donald trump and his speech
on how he love his country
and want to make America great again

Do you trust me to deliver my poems to you?
Without re-inventing the pages or
disparaging my poetic talents

“A man who views the world the same at 50
as he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life.”

Poetry is ongoing art form, the poet never cross the
River to get the imagery,
for the same reason a ghost can’t cross water

Every artist dips his brush in his own soul,
and paints his own nature into ....
The painter puts brush to canvas, and the poet puts pen to pad

Do you trust me to deliver my poems to you?
Without the *******, let me surrender to my passion.
Let me write with all of you in mind
Let's spread kindness and happiness where it’s most needed
into the hearts of the one who believe in me

Poetry is an going art form
educate yourself about the history of the human spirit, before
Condemning it to the trash with the avatar symbol,
Make your craft, worth repeating
and your poems would stand out
like a breath of fresh air in a crowded room.

I wandered lonely with my silly thoughts
In the depth of my physic mind
I heard laughter; I felt their pain

The crowd jumps over obstacles
Naked, green and unapologetic, they scatter
Those curious eyes, those silence viewers

My audience and my critics I must indeed say that
A poet’s mind seeks shelter, from the addicted past
Feeding off the water-main black ink fumes

Composing their thoughts on old brown paper
Closing in: on innocent bystanders
Before they yield to the power of the unknown

So many magazines, clips, circling freely in the hands of evil
so much times to take down the innocent bystanders
We have to wondered on who is in control of life and death?

Thorn amongst the weeds
As for what was sown among thorns.
It wasn’t the pumpkin vines: Little did I know:
I watched him daily watering the young plants;
Pulling the dried weeds, and
adding more manure soil to the garden
It took several weeks for me to see a garden full of beautiful
pumpkin leaves and flowers

Little did I know:  it was more than vines,
It came with those neuro-protective qualities,
and can also influence pleasure, memory, and thinking:
However, what’s is good for the goose
not necessary good for the gander.

So there I was a little Miss Goosey goosey gander,
Whither shall I wander? Upstairs and downstairs
Or hide behind the old shed, and indulging in high-caloric treats,
Not everyone who uses marijuana becomes addicted.
Nor everyone who writes a piece is a poet, but a good story teller.

The best part of the day was two-thirty for me
The best part of the evening, is when I am on the train
With my thoughts, my aching feet
and you on my mind: the warm feeling

The high risk: the madness, this military world
then I thought of a Jamaican comedy
Shabada, Trever and basement Granny
The vibes, his voice, their natural dialect,
of freedom raw on stage, big up to them
Like the olden days with the pen and paper
Pen pals and old typewriters: we communicate freely
Without the social media tools:
Throughout each line we read, we smile,
We touch the smudge ink on the pages,
its represent the love of someone who cared

However, here today is the trump administration news
The regales stories of families who are being torn apart
The thousands of elephants that are being poached for its ivory tusks
To the messages it sends about an uncaring leadership team
For all my pain, my good deals of the day,
Merci, merci, mercy me!
My plantar fasciitis: when would it all end?


**P.S Don’t be afraid of the darkness that surrounds you
Be afraid of the darkness within you…

All those memories will be lost in time
Remembering, how the *** used to be
The pain, the games, and now it’s the shame
of unresponsive low libido , rerouting all lanes
Replaced, by the latest muscle relievers

The legs refused to go beyond the sixty degree angle
to stretch the inner thigh muscles

They crack their back, just by ripping the covering off the condoms
While their toes curves due to the deficiency of vitamins B12

Remembering how the *** used to be, wild, wild and carefree
Mobility without the Immobility
can ruin one’s ****** activities

Monday ‘Blues

Sometimes we pray for the weekend
But all good things must come to an end
The more the weeks surpass, nothing seem to change
What would the new week bring?
An apology of some sort from the president?
Would another court reject Trumps campaigns lawsuits?
Did anybody release the children from family detention centers?
In Dilley, Texas:  Oh man the Monday morning blues soars!

Tuesday the smoother, as we stroll along,
The friendly goodmorning is coming back
The smiles are wider on the faces of the low renters
As for me taking one day at a time:

Wednesday:
I feel like I am stuck in the middle of nowhere
The new normal of stress-Free Virtual Thanksgiving is approaching
I detest this corona pandemic political bull….
or as Trump would say (The Chinese virus)
More than ever, more than anything I have ever encounter on this earth:

My poems sometimes is more of an opinion than
Poetry, it reveals my thoughts on most subjects
Which others people might discuss in *** shops,
Lunch tables, gathering,
however, my words are not just words
while they might make ones think,
or shrugs one’s shoulder:

Every poet has a beginning
Every river begins somewhere,

My words come from grief
Hardships, injustices let sum this up
To the unfairness of life..

Thursday:
let’s say positive thoughts
And so far so good..
Because it will be Friday
And please remember every poet has a beginning:
Every winner, must blessed the loser,

Getting tired or out of breath while making love
But I never get out of breath while
Composing a free verse or
writing poetry in the form of a Villanelle styles
*** is like running a marathon:
So upgrade your *** game

a sharp razor
an outstretched arm
a sudden darkness



When she dumped you
It should have been on top of a bed of cow itch
Unfortunately, for us the seven-year itch continues



A Steep Hill
Your silver motorbike
Why not take it for a test run

Mostly I would like to feel a little more
And stop the entire make believe:
How many of you can say that they truly love their job

I hate it when someone says to me
You better be glad that you have a job
My job is like a relationship, bittersweet
I work hard to get the job,
but it’s time to divorce it and take a long vacation

I remember my grandfather’s donkey, Wilbert
The poor man work that animal to death,
One day I swear I heard the donkey said to me
I hate my job, but jobs out there for me is limited
I have no skill, I have no talent, so what the master
Asked of his *** he has to obey:
he passed away six month after the talk

We had that heartfelt conversation…Wilbert and I (:)
I would like to feel a little more, and stop this entire make believe
How can I be a poetic leader when I am always complaining?
A donkey never complain,

Mother's Prayer" by Mary A. Loberg.

A Mother's Prayer
Help me dear Lord, as a mother, I pray
And bless these hands folded in prayer today;
May they be ever strong as they guide, as they teach,
Beings never too far for a child to reach.
May they never, with selfishness, try to dissuade,
Nor too quickly punish, nor too slowly aid.
May they point out the pleasures in laughter and song,
And may they show, wisely, the right from the wrong,
So that one day I'll know that I've helped all I can
To make her a woman, to make him a man.

Multiples Personalities

I’ll defeat you, I said
I have study your every moves
You clustered my inside,
Gasping for air, I struggled
It snow, I wore a tee shirt
No boots though, I took the train
Trouble follows me
Outrageous! I scream

Split personalities, alters assembled
At court street, Nevins and Applebee
Each taking turns to maneuvers in the cold breeze

I fought with all my might,
then headed to the voodoo priest
Gibberish sounds he offered
However, not for too long
With some great effort
Conquering we fought the beast
Depression you lose; we won.

Birthday feelings
Another year is back no longer can leapfrog this day
Where my body squeals on me from time to time
Melanin, flawless, caramel skin transparent
for you to view my friends,
Face ageless, mind intone to my compose poetry,
Every Nano second counting down to dust,
By the grace of the almighty:
The loud notification bell rang the old familiar tone,
From my well-wishers, on Facebook, and WhatsApp,
The thousands of unwanted gray hairs cover my silky black,
to match my aging face as I jokingly play around with my camera
My smiles seem to match well with my reassurance
of knowing that l am going to be alright today,
the loud notification keeps on coming,
I am releasing a happy energy
called I am alive and doing great
I have reached the good old age of ....
Here I am once again, unscrambling the word birthday,
Happy birthday to me.
copilot
Reflecting on our lives during birthdays holds a special significance. It’s a moment to pause, look back, and take stock of our journey. Here’s why it matters:
Gratitude: Birthdays remind us of the gift of life. Reflecting allows us to appreciate the people, experiences, and opportunities that have shaped us. Gratitude fuels positivity and contentment.
Self-awareness: As we age, we evolve. Self-reflection helps us understand our growth, strengths, and areas for improvement. It’s a chance to assess our values, beliefs, and priorities.
Life Lessons: Birthdays prompt us to revisit pivotal moments—the highs, lows, and lessons learned. These experiences contribute to our wisdom and resilience.
Setting Intentions: Reflecting helps us set intentions for the year ahead. What do we want to achieve? How can we align our actions with our aspirations?
**Celebrating Milestones: Each birthday marks a milestone. Reflecting acknowledges our progress and celebrates our existence.
So, on this special day, take a moment to look within, appreciate the journey, and embrace the next chapter. 🎂🌟
2of30

I am a beacon of light for my homeland. My quaint village, serene yet vibrant, is a haven of peace. The youth, with their carefree spirit, fill the air with laughter and song, unbothered by the world beyond. Even the birds know to respect the tranquility of our lives.
From the winding road that leads to the bustling city, the countryside remains unchanged. I love to gaze out and let my thoughts wander as I speed by in the fast-moving vans. My people, ever resilient, continue to drink from the well of life and mind their own business.
Today marks what would have been my late mother's 94th birthday. She was one of my favorite people, a true embodiment of our country's spirit. Rest in peace, dear mother.
With Christmas just twelve days away, I look forward to blending once again with my countrymen, like a well-orchestrated steel band. From New York to the Caribbean shores, no holiday celebration is complete without the melodious sound of the steel pan in Queen Park.
Whether we cry in a storm or dance in the rain, this time of year celebrates life and honors those we've lost. I am a ray of sunshine for my country's people. Merry Christmas, my beloved homeland.

Dreams


My Foggy images, became the joy of contentment
This toy with me in my dreams

And lead me to false hope of being happy
my pulses race fast, as I wish for it to be true

Even in the my foggy dream the scam builds
Oh, wicked dream, why tease me so,
They say that dream is like a river, and I can’t swim

Either upstream or downstream: no wonder I never win
Ends this nightmare, or put your hands on my weak heart

Morning sun, or bathroom breaks,
just closed down this lucidity overpowering rush

Let this, be my last thousand wistfulness of testing.
My dream choose me, I didn’t choose them!
A briefcase filled with one hundred dollars bills.

A fear of relationships and love often runs deep, tied to the pain that love can bring. The heartbreak, the intimacy of knowing someone deeply, and seeing them with another. They promised us everything, but now they share those promises with someone else. Love can feel like a mortal wound: death ends a life, not a relationship. What is lovely never dies but transforms into another form of beauty.

I harbor resentment towards my ex, but not towards his children. I love Coca-Cola, but not the caffeine. I love the act of intimacy, but not the togetherness it implies. I will always fear love, but I will never forget that one kiss, the last goodbye, and his first hello. The look in his eyes the day he cried. I won’t apologize for protecting my heart. My expectations of him shattered us.

“My soul, wait in silence for God only, for my hope is from Him.” (Luke 3:15)

I shall not fear walking the streets alone, without his hand in mine or his comforting words at the stoplight, “Please wait before we cross.” But I still fear love from mortal men, who can oppress, dehydrate, and suffocate us. However, God’s love never fails. I will always keep my distance from love, even though many say that love is life, and life is worth living with that kind of love. I will never tremble again or grip my heart because love has disappointed me. My love for them is genuine, but their love for me was about the money.

My God is no actor,
he need no script to make a winning role
He is the master of all things
he forgives our debts and our failures
without him, we are nothing

The last time I think of death and breath
In the same sentence: was on an Easter Sunday
And on that day when I saw videos clip over and over of a
Public assassination, a lynching in the year 2020

As humans beings we all need oxygen to live,
Never take it for granted, we need to breath
Same as for the fishes in the ocean they
Need, oxygen too, to survive,

My poems need a wider audience to get
The essence across, demographically
More than a public assassination
My faithful followers is the essence of my poetry/

If I say that they can heal the world in seven days
In the mind of my reader, they will
Probably asked, who does she think she is (God?)

You see the divine is the vaccine, the healer,
I need more time to write, the poems /
That will heal this world, my poems bring
Emotional connection to one’s inner thoughts:

Seeing someone taking them last breath is peaceful
They chest goes up and then down,
slowly with a goodbye
My father was singing, one of Fat Domino
Favorite song, then he slowly closed his eyes:

According to reliable source my x husband,
also struggle to breathe before he took his last  breathe

My gold fish just float to the top of the tank.
The last time I think of death and breath
In the same sentence: was on an Easter Sunday
And twenty minutes ago, before I compose this piece

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………

I can never take back the things I have said
The “I love you, my words of the day,
My imperfect gestures: you *******!!
that gesture of affection with my imperfect self, ...

But one thing for sure you can never remake
The thing you have destroyed, (me)
Replacement, is not the same,
Originality is not authentic
They are not one and the same:
I have come to forgive you,

I have come to like the shine of your head again,
I often wondered, if you love your past
Of did you let it explode like ****** gas?

I have taken down the Christmas ornaments
And replace them with the Easter theme
And I am about to think of this unstable spring weather
And what it might happily brings this month:
I did a wonderful thing:

I reached out to friends from a distance,
But fears that some friendship would be interpret the wrong way
I did a wonderful thing: in light that it’s mother’s day
I feared that a war might break out soon
Between America and it’s allied, because of
Mr.Trump strange hands shake style which comes off as lies,
May the God almighty help us?

My words of wisdom or my bittersweet words
The words of my imperfect self during my morning thoughts
Never let them stop you from knowing the true meaning of love
On this mother’s day eve
Lord covers us with your blessing…

Island girl reporting: Demerara Lady
Best Wishes

You may not believe it, but I have tried,
To come to terms with this thing
Called forgive and forget,
While reaching for the tissues box
So what about my hidden scars?
My daily reminders, my mentors
I have tried.. But they taught me to be
Strong, and believe that out of bad comes good

Maybe I ought to tried, a *******
To see if I can came to terms with that too..
With me, myself and I: what a fantastic dual

I love me: and I, was fondling myself.
My evil mind, my impure thoughts
My labor of love: I did try

Poetry writing has taught me a lot throughout the years
I can be original, but I would never master the craft
But I will have a voice of recognition: My human voice

Fear the poets that wielded great power with their pens.

Every time I open my mouth to
Response to idiotic people my language change
It was so early in the morning,
And believe me, I wasn’t in the mood

For female nonsenses: one drops on her knee
And raise her hand to the ceiling, open her mouth
And let out a bunch of nonsense. The other whispered
“God protect me from these evil people,

I look at my co-worker, and he looked at me
Such juvenile malarkey, so early in the morning:
“He said” with a loud Sigh!!!!

I lost another one, it gone, it no longer moves,
What, whom and where, and why!  The baby!
My eyes drop to her knees with such unspoken grief,

I was told that’s where they go for safety:
It had to be some conspiracy:  five small angels
In five years, how does she control those tears?

At the moment, I need a glass of water and two aspirins;
She looks so emotionless and calm: the same exact composer
Like my friend had after the death of her son:

I on the other hand saw myself standing on the edge
Looking down into the darkness of a bottomless pit

Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

** If you gave someone your heart and they died,
did they take it with them?
Did you spend the rest of forever with a hole inside you that couldn't be filled?”
― Jodi Picoult,