Wastes of space, we the scapegrace, blank expressions, poker face.

You're my ace, ahead in the race, they're second place, a futile chase.

Stakes growing higher like an untamed fire, their inevitable pyre, situations dire.

Those who were bold, i watched their hands fold, those who seemed braver, i watched as they waivered, as they fretted and regretted, i watched their faces fall, like a delicate house of cards, gingerly balanced, standing tall.

But i have nout to fear, for my secret ace is here, hidden up my sleeve, to which i dearly cleave, they all want to believe, as losing's what they fear, but losing's all they'll get, while my secret ace is near.

Do I have to learn sign language to communicate
So that in my voice, you won't get irritate?
Or should I have a voice transplant ,
But I think theres no operation like that ..

Sometimes from other I got envy
So I ask God why this is the voice He gave to me??
Why not like those voices they have ?
Beautiful and enchanting ,like the angels above..

But ,it's not right to question God above,
Just be thankful and contented with what you have
So I apologize to all of you ,
Cause' im just a person that commit mistakes too..

Somehow, I realised my voice is not really ugly,
Annoying and destructive : not really!
It just sounds like a chipmunks or a cat ,
And many are happy for me ,so cheers for that !!

The strokes of your tongue
could rival those
of a Picasso painting.

Freshly ground coffee,
love wafts in the morning air.
Is it here to stay?

Sometimes my man buys plants.
He follows the instructions on the tab,
And sets it somewhere sunny
in his attic apartment.
For a week, he is diligent;
sees how hardy his new friend is.
and admires its beauty.
Then he watches it die.
Try as he might, after a short while,
he doesn't always remember
to water it on time,
to give it some love,
and so then it shrivels up.
Dead.
Upon seeing it, my man is mortified.
But for some strange reason,
he never tosses it out.
He keeps it sitting on top of where ever.
Dead.
For many more weeks.
I don't remind him,
how sad it is to see it.
Out of fear he'd get a new one,
and love it dead all over again.
The other day, my man
gave me a kiss
and called me a beautiful flower.
I am grateful
these legs aren't roots.