Sometimes it hits me out of nowhere
a missile that was sent eons ago,
Breaks straight through my window
and forces its poison into my bloodstream.
O' did I saw that coming?
I swear I didn't. I pretend all day and night
that less do I know what pain feels like.
Bullets- they decorate themselves
near the skip in my steps,
the high melody in my voice.
They suddenly choke my windpipe,
with all the lies ever known in one life time.

I’m dead but somehow still alive.
If you ever get an invitation
from this reckless mind of mine,
don’t even dare think about it.
You won’t be able to swallow
even a pocketful of sunshine
in my voracious war zone.

You see, I’m not bullet proof.
I dive deep into my nasty void,
Call my own name
Over and over again
to safe myself at night.
The muscles in my body screams,
While trying to squeeze all the stars
in the universe into each of my broken cells.

                                                                       It hurts.
                                                        It hurts when you are not bullet proof.

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

It was shallow water, rippling
a watery moon quivering
on the surface seen
It was night fire
burning water into steam
gray smoke screened
It was willful drowning
upon a lily bed of lies
parched a wilted garden
slowly withers, dies