Please consider, when reading my poetry
It is poetry, it's not always autobiography.
I have a gift, to zip back and forth in time
And then to render that journey in rhyme.
I tell what I felt then and sometimes connect
It to the world today, to let you see correctly
What it has meant for me to be the real me
And to let you understand the me you see.

I feel that is my job, a journalist in rhyme,
Sometimes to paint pretty fantasies, and
Often to paint thoughtful pictures of what
I have come so solidly to understand.
I may tell of a time that hurt so much
That I set it down on paper to assimilate
A better outlook and to remember it all
So to learn before it becomes too late.

Sometimes I publish a piece to read
That someone is heartbroken for me
Because they are sweet enough to care
I might be going through a sad reality,
When the portrayal I made that worried
And shook them about my rhyme
Is a story from decades ago, a tale
That comes from a much earlier time.

If I learn this has happened, I tell
The truth about that instance
And make them feel better for it
When and if I might have the chance.
So, thank you my loving readers
For taking the time to even care.
I write to make an effect on you
But never, ever meaning to scare.

Hey readers!!!

Thank you so much for looking through my page. I wanted to give a shoutout to Lance McDonald. He has an awesome YouTube page where he reads poetry. He is trying to promote poetry because poetry is often overlooked.  As poets I think that we should all try to support him by following him.
His channel is: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCYG8zE0qsfk1bbuo9s-o2VQ

Thanks,

It is the place of ill’s mausoleum;
This book is really an imperium
Which teaches everyone decorum.
A true product of petroleum –
To fire out fallacy and presidium
And produces highest order decorum.
A place of mental gymnasium:
Highly creative, productive ***
Where ill shaded in mausoleum,
The place with lot of decorum,
Cannot be found in millennium.
It is the place of ill’s mausoleum.

The only book teaching humanism;
The only which cures locoism;
One and only poem for lyricism
Is Reader’s Digest’s mechanism.
If you see it through any prism
Can find joy, fun, thrill and sarcasm
This is a  weak agent of nihilism;
This is the best known idealism
Where all spend individualism
To receive mental masochism.
Reading it is just like mesmerism.
Without it school suffers gargoylism.
Indian tradition or let be Maoism,
It is well read and accepted optimism.

One of the resourceful books unbeatable;
Children’s love, care and comfort biddable
Is none better than Reader’s Digest – capable.
Articles, reports, jokes and anecdotes audible;
All are present in it; all are undoubtable.
Changing the mindset of students capable
Is a new, systematic thing coachable.
Changing the world and its cannibal
Into the virtues and values bindable.
Explaining itself if anytime culpable;
And so is famous for being countable.
Teachers, parents, students ennoble
Reader’s Digest for not being enfeeble.
Leaders or followers who are like a crucible
Change their minds and be bendable.
Behaviour and conduct – key undoubtable
Will keep you atop, elevated, lofty and able.

In the briar meadow
Where the wind swings long and low,
Is the memory of a hidden path
Little women may not know.

The rancid smell of Crimson paint
Of Cupid's Scarlet Bow,
Scars its victim one by one,
A branding iron's foe.

It seals the fate of little girls
Before they come to be,
Who hide themselves to kindly peek
Upon the doe of The Briar Patches' knee.

The sweet sweet savor of blackberries
Growing wild along the lane
Delay return as all consumed
The berries from Orchid Lane.

The Whisper of the Willow Trees
That hide the Sacred Kiss
Loft the Billowing Sounds
Of a young lovers' hopeful wish.

But fate has never faltered
A Secret only the Willow know,
Why the Holy Crimson stain
Drips upon the Briar's doe.

Now the Garden only fills
The air of aged chills
Of a yearnings' life that only once
Thorned it's lovely ills.

Scarlet hushed the haunting Whispers
Made upon the Briar's Patch
While Cupid's proof kept itself softly
Far beneath the Willow's match.

Scarlet's quilted choker
Swinging in the breezy wind
Tell the blessed beauty's life
Of a dearly devoted friend.

Life once so treasured,
Now so very long ago
Leave the only trace upon The Garden's Lot
In the evenings' glow.

Raise your hand* if
your confidence is reaching its limit
Well let me tell you,
don't dare believe it for a minute

A poet stands at the center
of circles of illusions
Sparked by the fire within
and burnin' institutions

They write about the current state
as far as they can see it,
as well as personal doubts
claimin' that they can feel it

Don't hand your savings over,
'cause now you pay it forward,
but life won't pay you back,

So what you say to that?

"I say we're bein' controlled
by such an evil system;
a metal contract was forced
on lost and bleedin' victims."

"I don't agree with you, man.
We're where we need to be.
With very little control,
we risk to eat for free!"

We risk to eat for free?

"Food's a commodity!
And with overpopulation,
I say this honestly!"

"Don't mean to interrupt;
your notion of depravity
appears dumbfounded and
far from grounded by gravity."

"I say this world belongs
to kings and innovators;
hope of the people is thrown
to the incinerator."

"We're seeking liberators
mightier than the sword.
We work to buy them a pen -
weapons we can afford."

"And when their eyes are wide open
I think that writers see
the world not for what it is,
rather what it could be."

"Yeah! They're talkin' for us metaphorically,
imaginin' utopias for you and me,
questions answered rhetorically."

The world is yours**
and no one else's,
so live to give it more time
through love and being selfless.

It's hard to write happy things
When I'm feeling sad
It's hard to talk and "walk the walk"
When I'm feeling mad

Most of the songs I write
Are when I'm angry or depressed
And you don't have to read them
If it makes you feel upset

I'd hate to make my readers feel
The worthlessness and pain that I often do
It's hard to know if my works are "bad"
So just read a line or two

And give it a like if you really do,
Don't like it out of pity
Because it will tempt me to continue
With little or no mercy

So please do not hurt yourself
By reading something violent
And make it even worse
By keeping complete silence

There is no need to do that
So read at your peril
Because whether I am angry or sad
'Tis the work of a devil

Of all the chances that I ever took
The best by far was to open a book.
For I quickly discovered that to read
Is the most rewarding pastime indeed.

Then reading in me a spark did ignite
To a burning desire one day to write.
Thankfully though, that what writers most need
Is other books, other authors to read