insecurity /ɪnsɪˈkjɔːrɪti/ is an uncertainty or anxiety
about oneself or lack of confidence

but insecurity is more than that.

insecurity is feeling like
you cannot wear the green shirt
because people would call you and it ugly.

insecurity is spending
an hour in the bathroom
to cover the spots from
cruel, laughing eyes.

insecurity is hiding
in the back of the classroom
with a shroud of mystery
to conceal the fear of
everyone laughing at
your answers.

insecurity is layering
yourself in conservative clothes
so the mockery
about your weight
is out of sight
out of the obnoxious gossipers mind.

insecurity is retiring
to a world of books
in the comfort of my room
since my peers cannot accept
me and my interests.

insecurity is allowing
only a small amount
of food, water, life
to shed the faces full
of ridicule.

insecurity is creating
a veil of sweaters and long-sleeved shirts
to hide the razor marks
of a haunting past.

insecurity is feeling shamed
of any uniqueness because
of the unnecessary attention
and inability to hide your shyness.

insecurity is sustaining
the weight of a burden
from the unfortunate
events of life
and the helplessness that
you couldn't stop the crash
that killed your parents.

insecurity is redesigning
yourself to be perfectly alligned
with society's expectations
making you forget
what makes you unique
so scornful looks are redirected.

insecurity is forgetting
that it's alright to be different
despite another person
saying otherwise.

can't i escape my insecurities?

J.R. said the man in the helmet said, “Goodbye, my friend,” before shooting his father in the chest. His body sank, but the man shot him twice more, in the head and cheeks. The children said the three men were laughing as they left.*
-Daniel Berehulak, They Are Slaughtering Us Like Animals, New York Times

Manila, goodnight.
The world is watching you slowly die.
Tattered truths & losing sense of life
captivate your battered night. Mud hurls blood
streets batted with horror & blabbed
anonymous spirits ghostlier than ever.

(Even ghostlier than your Martial Law days)

Manila, tranquilize yourself.

Your rest will be disturbed by scourged souls, thunderous cracks of guns,
bullets hitting flesh, motorcycle tandem arrests,
people’s holy shouts shunning shibboleth sounding death.

Hear them not. Sleep well.

Maggots festering wound. Manila,
on your knees, worms stich your broken nerves
healing gunshot wounds with peace.

Your night will be a train of madness
shattered by lies through morbid holes in skulls
& confessions in cardboard signs.

(Justice today is served cold, so cold)

& everything from that day on is simply to be known
as a cold just.

Truth decays. Life smolders, vanishing.

Your nights will be unthreaded from memories
for no one dares to look back to twisted arms clenched
by plastic strips, head bowing to ground (instead of ground
bowing to head), ground kissing the body naked swarmed
either by grease or blood, the body breaking gossips
among gossipers & gossamer among spiders.

Weep not, dead men tell no fiction.
Their bodies are the shocking truth, forsaken
shocking headlines hissing morning papers
peppered with mint or lies.

Manila, goodnight for your night will be remembered
through vigilant myths & nothing more.

Often cold bodies, freezing voices from limbo,
can’t speak nor bothered the living.

Again, Manila, in your arms, dead men tell no tales.

The killing spree of fragmented morality,
mortality, fatality, vanity, sanity, insanity, apathy.

Manila, do not move. You are now sedated with fear,
stronger than cooked methamphetamine of crooked realities,
no less than a drug making your anxious, bothered
in the darker & dimmer night
in dimmer  & darker disaster.

Manila, walk with your graffiti walls.
Your gutters will be banks of blood. Daylight traffic
will erase your night’s unwelcoming sphere. Last night
persists as tiny figment of imaginings photographed
& again, nothing more.

Everything will pass like hyacinths of Pasig River.

Everything will pass like one’s eternal passing.

Everything will pass like a chilling December wind.

Everything will pass either a typhoon or a butterfly fluttering.

Manila, goodnight. I am afraid they will ****** you
in your sleep. I am afraid that everything will just pass
like your breath losing hold of your lungs then your heart.

I am afraid that your death, my dear Manila,
will just be a neighbourhood rumour passing
& everything turns into a fiasco of a madman who believes
that he is a messiah, was he a messiah or never he will be a messiah.

Manila goodnight, I will watch you in your sleep. Your sleep
will be a thousand fold peace. No more of your sons or daughters
will be killed at least not in my memory.

Manila, here comes the night. Sleep,
sleep holy in the hidden lair of my mind. Your
catacomb will be wreathed by flowers & tears.
Incense will be fragrant burning bones. Your life,
your tired life will be a gentle ebbing of time
like your Bay’s sunset beauty, like your lively street people
like your once known heritage, your life
in the busy daybreak of your kindred sons.

Goodnight, my dear Manila.

Like a captive, I capture rapture wrapping around stakes that matter
Joan of Arc battered
Also tattered but, easily dismissive
Refracted from fractured prominent phrases people play with
Distinctly persuasive and evasive, dressed boyishly attractive, lax stature, dawning armor crafted by absence as if asked about it-
I’m drifted
Protection is principle prerequisite, when fire is lit
I sort of implore your aorta before it’s incinerated to ashes
Dethatched as a habit, with swords or hatchets crafted to singe heartstrings that attached it
While I slash slick Rick as a quick fix,
To fend for pretend pretenses or presumed tricks,
I can’t quit
Cause I hit lips against hash spliffs fashioned with dashes of passion all while rationing fireball cinnamon sips
Martyr to avoidance
I gaze at fabled dazed gossipers galvanizing grips on gritty grapevines while licking warning labels through smoke haze on blurred lines
Capably unstable
Other eyes attending scandal circles able to shout lies and rekindle handed arguments on tables with locked smiles stay boxed in
Avidly amiable
Searching for counterparts when combusted or branded
Toying with matches loses meaning when rules reseed
Those vagabonds claim love is some all end hard bent to mend what the same above can’t comprehend.
Breaking boredom, I pillage pillows with night terrors
And ardent arsonists yearn for flames that churn, turn, liquefy and learn learned thoughts and smoldered feelings
Completely complacent
Melting in one another they are completing each other like two candles tryst true at a wedding day
However later the blaze is severed, smoke sears, and charred black wick stands alone for them.
Aggressive and progressive.
As for me never pleading, fire forever fleets to streets between iron bars I built that cage in deep heat and seep dire dreams once desired
Suppose I’m a skeptic
Roasted or disconnected
Just jaded, just met you
Always over it too soon
Burnt but I’m amused.
I’m useful.

There once was a proper noun,
who started hanging with the wrong crowd.
With alluring adjectives who handed out compliments like candy
− gob smacking gossipers with an opinion on everything.
And with thrill-seeking adverbs,
who buddied up to the most dangerous of companions;
crash, dive, hurl, and gamble (to name a few).

Until the day the sentence came rambling into town,
planting punctuation in the form of kisses
on the noun’s eyelids, earlobes, and collarbone.

Provoking such admissions as, “My thighs stuck
to the black leather seats under the hot, cloudy skies
of that August afternoon, and my hair whipped
like willow branches in the wind,
when I rode on the back of his motorcycle.”
or, “He greets me every morning with a sun-drenched kiss”,
and, “The tulips were picked fresh from the ditch of
a curvy, country road, but now sit in a
vase by my bed, and are slowly wilting away.”

It would eventually be made clear
that the sentence had a nasty habit
of propositioning prepositions,
only to leave them hanging,
and to place things in parenthesis,
that simply did not belong.  

And so, the sentence would wind up leaving town,
or “run-on”, as the noun liked to tell it.
Went chasing after some particularly provocative expletives,
eventually trailing off with a faint set of ellipsis...

And the kindest of adjectives
came cooing after the noun,
calling to her; lovely, lustrous, listless.
And the adverbs brought with them
their gentlest of friends; comfort and console,
to speak with the noun:
softly, tenderly, lovingly- all witnesses.

But it was of no use,
and the noun whispered quietly:
“I have been enchanted with a single kiss
which can never be undone,
until the destruction of language.”


*based off of the poem Permanently, by Kenneth Koch

I’m rather fond of chocolate cake
I’d like to learn to knit
But I can’t abide Celine Dione
And Celery is ****

I find a book most comforting
And the odd banana split
But I hate celebrity look-a-likes
And Canadian singers
And celery are ****

I’m happiest by the fireside
Some music, I’ll permit
But I grit my teeth at gossipers
And dead ringers
Canadian singers
And Celery are ****

I love the air about my hair
And the grass beneath my feet
But I've never been too keen on wasps
And **** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****

I’m partial to a cup of tea
With a biscuit next to it
But I’ll never vote conservative
And insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****

I like to bake a birthday cake
Or build a Lego kit
There are many things I truly love
But Right wingers
Insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are STILL ****

**

Wakes up to the chiming of the clock
I close the door and turn the lock
And start my morning walk.

The sun beams down to clear the fog
Ah....cool fresh air no more smog
As I begin my morning walk.

I go slow and easy I don't have to slog
No rush to compete or time to log
I'm enjoying my morning walk.

Corporate world is full of same mock
Up circus, wine, clowns and shock
I go for my morning walk.

Some brisk walking some prefer to jog
One run as if chased by a dog
Me and my morning walk.

People to people on the tracks of rock
Gossipers talk and talk, tick tock
But I've got my morning walk.

Before poor heart gives me the knock
Before old arteries starts to clog
Better take the morning walk.

From the Lady Liberty to El Capitolio
Comes the Pichardo and the Salas that lie above me.
Where the dirt isn’t always brown to where the streets aren’t always bound.
When a good time is always easily found with a bottle of *** and a good dominoes round. I am from the land of the gossipers where talking is everyones favorite past time that the last thing you can be is a mime.

I am from jumping rope and playing cards, to watching tv and driving cars.
Where no matter rain or shine no one is ever left behind.
To where 90 miles away is not as far, but for others its more then three days.

From shopping and movies to parties and buoys.
Bipolar weather and fresh trees to hot days and cold waves.
Where the feeling of sand in your toes is the best to where the football games always have a bet. Where hanging with your friends is the best reward because no matter what you can never be bored.

It’s crazy how relatable  
mistakes can be.

I'll put it all on the table,
you can take from me.

If you can’t take the heat,
don’t go putting out my fire.

The desires that I’ve had,
haven’t always been inspired.

Man, I’m way too drunk to drive,
stuck on the curb.

I’ve been swerving in my life,
bust out the herb.

Gotta find another woman,
luck out on her.

I’m not a poet
just a word choreographer...

Your problems when you got em,
will fuel the gossipers.

So profit off the topics
that are coming out of hurt.

The pain inside the struggle,
shaped this word philosopher.

Paint my pain in letters,
just to try and stop it first.

Then I let it fly
like hell-i-cop-ter-er.

I'm higher than the sky when,
the limits start from earth.

Winning by the minute,
watch my hits and clocks emerge.

Having too much fun,
time is gonna stop the verse.

Her skin was dark and her hair was black,
She walked with a Spanish sway,
‘She could be from South America,’
I would hear the neighbours say,
She’d taken the cottage in Ansley Court,
Put seagrass mat on the floor,
Then given them something to talk about
With the shingle she hung on the door.

‘A Course is starting on Wednesday week
For the women of Risdon Vale,
“The Secret Rites of the Shuar Revealed,”
(For ladies alone - No Male!)
The art of centuries, hidden ‘til now
Will be taught in a matter of weeks,
Be among the first to learn of these skills,
(At just sixty dollars, each!)’

Said one, ‘It’s probably just a scam,
For what could she have to show?’
‘This village is such a bore,’ said Pam,
‘I’d pay to see rushes grow!’
But curiosity killed the cat
They say, in that wise old saw,
And half the women of Risdon Vale
Turned up to the stranger’s door.

She took the women, one at a time
Examined each one alone,
Then chose just six to make up the course
And sent all the others home.
She’d weeded out all the gossipers,
And the ones that were loose of tongue,
Had sworn to secrecy those she chose
At an altar with candles on.

Not one of the chosen ones would speak,
Not one of them say a word,
They hung together in whispered cliques
And wouldn’t be overheard.
Their husbands too, were kept in the dark
When asked, they would heave a sigh,
Shrug their shoulders, and raise a brow
Though everyone wondered, ‘Why?’

Ted Wilkins wasn’t impressed by this
And took himself to the pub,
‘I don’t like secrets,’ he told his mates,
Then left to head for the scrub.
They said he’d gone with Emily Bates,
They’d been having it off for years,
‘Her cottage is suddenly empty too,’
Said the wags in ‘The Bullock’s Curse.’

There wasn’t a tear in the Wilkins home,
She seemed to be quite relieved,
‘I always thought that she must have known,’
So half of the Vale believed,
A woman alone is a tidy mark
For a man like Michael Stout,
They saw him creep to her house one night,
But no-one saw him come out.

The tongues were wagging in Risdon Vale
About ‘funny goings-on,’
‘The preacher hasn’t been seen at church
Since that spat with Lucy Chong,’
Then Red Redoubt who had beat his wife
Took off, when he knew the score,
For Gwen had bid him ‘good riddance’ when
He was heading on out the door.

The women met on a Wednesday night
And they burned a light ‘til dawn,
‘What do you think they do in there?’
Said the gossip, Betty Spawn,
She crept up close to the house one night
And peered at the light within,
So Pam came out and surprised her there,
Said, ‘Why don’t you come right in!’

The six week course was almost done
When the police came round one night,
Kicked the door of the cottage in,
Gave the girls a terrible fright.
‘We need to know what you’re doing here,
There are rumours, round about,’
But the woman from South America
In the dark, had slipped on out.

There were pots and pans and cooking things
And a smell of something stale,
‘We’ve been learning all these secret things
But we can’t tell you, you’re male!’
Then a cry came out from another room
From a lad in the local police,
He said, ‘There’s six new shrunken heads
Out here on the mantelpiece!’

David Lewis Paget

Jacob Ekirapa! who killed you?
Your body was found puddled,
In blood that oozed out behind your head,
In your car you slept humble as in life,
Gorged in a trench downslope Kanduyi,
You were smiling in death as you ever did in life
Mindless to the murderer’s lethal object that crushed
Your head from the nape, an early a shot to the realm of deads,

Your Life in Lodwar City was Godly and peaceful
Serving God via varsity teaching as service to mankind
You quarreled not but you ever oozed intellect,
The Turkana chicken that roosted in your hearth you never
Went foxy to un-feather, deep in purity, a godly conscience,
As colleagues and friends were on a pageant of amorous mighty,
In a rampage, chasing women, money and Tusker at costs possible
Within the range of snobbish freedom that Lodwar-heat allowed,
Then you beautifully pitched and harvested a job at home,

Only to work at home with vintage discipline,
Serving the County people, Bungoma of your birth,
Least in your ken that the owl is ogling at you
With the certain lust of death, it killed you whole-meal
As if it has never killed, as if it has never killed, as if...
Killing you was the apex of glory for those that fear a spark
Of talent, discipline, brilliance, ****** hygiene, generosity and
Technical competence in the nerves of a youth which you evinced,

Jacocb Ekirapa! Who killed you?  was it a man or a woman?
Did the Bukusu people **** you because you are son of a Teso?
Or the a Teso killed because you had a job and then becoming rich?
The accident theory was a smoke-screen, to throw us off-sleuth
You killer hides behind a stage managed crush of your new car,
God could have allowed dialogue between the dead and the living
For you to tell me the man who killed you, why he killed you and how,
You are a friend that death robbed me, leaving me in a lurch of full despair,
In this world that is full of gossipers, sadists, bigots, wrys, sardonics, waifs, saddos,
Thieves, stooges, copy-cats, tribalists, self-congratulators, killers, egotistic egoists,
Making me now a neurotic listologist, but all in all, your death hit me hard below my belt,
Like the lunch treat of full Tilapia and Ugali you often did to me in the Oasis of Lodwar town,

Life on earth is a precursor of death, and death a harbinger of eternity
An obvious quoith for the arrow of your soul, truly, amid the 24 elders of heaven,
An obvious station of your un-blemished soul, Godly defiance to the folly of your killers,
Stupid, imbecile, idiotic, buffoonish black Africans that killed you, their own Sun, educated son
They **** a milch-cow that saves them from kwashiorkor, marasmus and poverty, a black man is comfortable in despair of poverty where voodoo looms, but not in a clime where young-men are schooled, clean, educated, employed and rich-a promise of tomorrow,
They killed you but forgive them, they also killed Ken Saro Wiwa, Stephen Adongosi, Steve Biko, Martin Luther King, Jacob Juma, John Kituyi, Meshack Yebeyi, Dr. Masinde of Kanduyi-thence, they are like that, they **** their own solutions only to fall back into mire of poverty-these black idiots,

"You will never believe who is dating who?
Can you believe that girl is pregnant? She doesn't know who the father is.
And, that guy...whisper I think he is THAT way.
His poor wife. She is whisper black, you know?
Have you seen Joe, lately? He is really packing on the pounds.
And, Jane is not aging very gracefully at all."
BLA BLA BLA!
I have to ask the gossipers
Do you ever wonder what people are saying about you?

We're romantics,
pretty gossipers.

We try as hard as we can to escape the world with pens,
and we soak page after page,
imagining the ink to be our tears.

We're depressed,
lost travelers.

The words; each hand picked to portray something only we can understand.
Our desperate search for empathy is sickening,
and yet it continues.

We're sweet,
helpless lovers.

We fall in love with every person we see with a symmetrical (enough) face.
Picking up habits that we've read in books,
or saw in an old film.

Why are we poets?

Why?
Did she come to church dressed like that?
Where she think she at?
A club.

Why?
Did he show up like that?
Pants and a t-shirt.

The nerve of these people.
Yes, those church folks with their opinions.
Pushing their dress code.

Than questioning, why people don't go?
When many church attenders already know?
With only a few brave enough to speak up.

Did lost souls come to be saved?
Or judged upon their looks?
Did someone needed to hear the word?
And not those of the gossipers.

Oh, those church folks.
Will some ever grow up?

Ar ben y bryn,
There sits a paint-brush-thin monument,
A crooked rocky record built by many unwilling hands.
This cockeyed testimony announces a difficult man,
A man befriended by nature
Whose oakish form turned in opposition to his kin,
Took root on stony ground,
Prospered on infertile soil
And sheltered under nature's canopy.

Y bryn oedd ei gartref
And he lived and thrived there
To the annoyance of the conformists:
The chapel-goers, the gossipers, the rate-payers
Those who could not abide his ragged clothing,
Sweat-stewed, blood-patched remnants of cloth,
Hanging rags of garments and barely-there shoes.
Loneliness he embraced and so peace was his.

Ar y bryn fu farw.
A few feigned to mourn to satisfy their curiousity,
Wanting to view the corpse of the man on the hill,
A man who was and wasn't one of them.
And so a dissonance struck the town:
He was one of them but also one of wild nature.
He was miserably poor but enviably free.
And out of such confusion was his half-hearted monument raised.

A treasure chest locked away
Whose key nobody knows
Many have searched and tried
But no one has ever triumphed

A secret hidden within
That even the worst gossipers cannot reveal
Not even the best observers can identify
Or even smartest people can unlock

Solve me please
Begs the chest
But be prepared
For things are unexpected

Answers become questions
And questions become answers
Hints become facts
and facts become hints

I do warn you though,
For the perils that lie ahead
Are confusing as ever
And dangerous nonetheless

But sadly I remain locked
And loneliness was my only friend
For no one could solve my lock
Nor anyone could find it

Disgusted by choice I've made
Why I've spent time on you all,
You've squeeze the giver in me
And juiced my mistakes to fall.

Your minds are troubled
Stinking with drama and negativism
Gossipers of the universe
Narcissists of your own realms

And you did not see the benefits
The takes you have tooked,
As you circle you own galaxies
Far too righteous flukes.

Self centered tendencies
Never dwelled on the company,
Because you all are selfish
Self centered tyrannies.

We all have done it.
And would be a liar to say we didn't.
You know told something.
When we shouldn't have.

But, I still hate the friend.
Who claims they are speaking for you to the press?
Where they place their own opinions into the mess.
If, I really wanted the news to know.
Then, I would have confessed the story months ago.

But, then someone people loves to be before the cameras.
And that have never been me.
Because many gossipers loves to create a variety of things.

Just to see you respond.
What they always seems fail to realize in the end?
A lie stays around while the real true fades into the dark.

And then the friends will say they never believe any of that.
Except,they fail to tell you they was getting paid behind your back.

We all seem people smile before your face.
And stabbed you in back without a glance.

Things that you probably only told to one.
Is now heard all arond the town you live in.

All because of the gossiper.

AiaiaiAI!
I broke the bads ****!
beyond the saddened eyes of a Notorious Funkyman

As if me were you
just to catch an incognito glimpse of you

Oh how I wish that'd stayed a joke in town
haven’t ******* like a bird on my head n  convert me to a punk
cannot turn't back
such an irrelevant inconvenient run
was dark dark
dark brown
beyond the thickening curtains shattering gossipers
at hours before the break of dawn

I don't do with tarot cards
my heart longing burning for your mirage
allows me not visualize

truth as is cruel
so I blow a puff
high tigh tight yotabye
n bluff you up
only how I wish was that a dream now but no man
t was no funky man
although with a funkyman
was so bad bad
and I!
after
as bad as you can be in hearts
and still me is so  good in dance
nobody could score us! ...Once we have had fans.

Read you thru the minds if not hearts and broke it open now!
saw yours was not true talkin to me
although remains so lovingly
eyes with  glittery in memory
as sad as it can be
if you not yourself convert it later on to … jokingly
I say ... like you
keep this a secret itsmak for luck only
then I knew what you meant...
then I saw what you saw...when you looked at me

I looked at him not with fake eyes of you oh love me true
and said Goodbye.
ie rolls a colorful bead - its a gift
with a who knows what future brings
me nodding agreeably
for the phrase only
Nay its neither for you nor ie
future a farewell at most
to include you both
and me
and I promise me
never I break hearts by puffs again
will stick to tarot cards  
keep tis a hard learned lesson past
where heart allows
if not minds.

Seagulls,
With their shrill cries,
Sharp beaks,
Judging eyes,
Always on the look-out
For the next morsel.

How versatile they are!
You don't have to be a dead thing
Lying on the beach.

These birds feed on living flesh!

Cooped within ancient bodies,
this inhabitant dwells amongst an elder net
of crabby, crotchety, curmudgeonly claque
of old folks, only a portion of population I met
which achey, flaky, kooky motley crue
disgruntlement fed as peevish pet
aye be earnest asper my assessment,
but some (quite frankly) getting ready and set
to lay down their limb mitt less lives,
even those who survived harrowing encounters as a vet.
-----------------------------------------------------------
­quotidian gossipers punctuate air waves while:
sitting, riding, quartering, puttering, operating, navigating,
motoring around on scooters (the sole means of locomotion

for many elderly residents),
whose sole occupation incorporates:
zapping, yelping, yakking, whining,
weeping, verbalizing, venting,
uttering, undulating, thundering,
squawking, squabbling, screeching,
rumbling, rattling, quibbling, quarreling,
prattling, pestering, okaying,
offending, needling, nagging, mumbling,
maligning, leering, lampooning,
kvetching, kibitzing, jesting, jabbering,
irritating, insinuating, heckling,
harping, glomming, gabbing, fulminating,
fretting, exclaiming, emoting,
denigrating, damning, carping, cackling,
bragging, begging, agitating, acting  
analogous to bad *** kids itching
for playground foo fight during recess,  

which comparison might be apropos
since majority of energy and time expended
complaining about nobody's business
concerning this, that, or another tenant...
thee management not exempt from
badmouth outbursts), where nondenominational
AARP qualified members congregate
within what constituted former auditorium
of repurposed elementary school,

hence quite some years ago (an honorable
NON GMO gluten free cheerful toast made,
instituting batter use then building standing vacant)
a bona fide unanimous dogmatic, heroic,
linguistic welcome sans titular viz zit head
where alumni of alluded alma mater, ivory fiery,
classy academic solvent atomic structure
became amalgamated, appropriated,
assigned a new life, whereat fob dost
electronically activate innermost recessed sliding doors,
principally, quintessentially, resoundingly availing maw
formerly entrancing students into
Schwenksville Elementary School,
though some years ago repurposed
with barely a trace constituting current subsidized
how zing facility re: Highland Manor,

the residence of thyself and missus
(approaching third month anniversary),
whereat I dune hot give a rats *** if aimless
airless baseless banter, ceaseless chatter,
dubious dabbling, et cetera if this solitary
ruminate thinker the subject de jure
of parlayed people portraying
penultimate purposelessness.

As the sun rose in the east
The wickedness of night began to cease
And all of those unholy deeds
Rumors on which the gossipers feast
Accusations later to be denied
Over cups of tea
Among knitting wives
And as the sun lowers in the west
The righteous and upright garner more to confess

Stories are meaningful in life.the stories have a story teller.a listener and gossiper .
What is important is to listen and analyze them.
It is the gossipers that broke your heart
You cut my stories
I was meaning each and every one
After your silence
I was heartbroken
I lost track and the only one who cared enough
Took my lonely piece of heart
But my problem is
I fabricate the stories to tell her
But I have no will to share with her
I have no heart to share true stories any more
In short I have no love
But
You took it all from me
Kindly return some for me to give her
She needs it.

Gossip was delightful.
The daily congregation
Kept everyone in  high spirits.
Reputations of men and
women of high order
were ripped to shreds.
The gossipers dispersed
only after discovering a villain
in the group who had broken the
group code with a malicious gossip about a group member.

How?
Did they died?
Suddenly fiction becomes fact.
Something that might have been natural has turned into a full blown heart attack.
Especially in a world of speculation.

We see speculations about various things.
Some that creates problems of falsehood.
That the truth became a past thing.

Especially in a marriage.
Where friends and kinship means well?
But don't have the true substance of the story to tell.
But once it's told than others wants things to be exposed.
When?
What they saw was innocent from the start?

A world of speculation gets in start in gossipers.
Those that feels the need to be the leader of anything.

They hide in the shadows, constantly racing.

Never to be seen, killed, nor destroyed;
However, only heard of in numerous stories

Blinded by the naked eye,
By the lies of hate,
By the jealousy of want,
By the nonsense of love.

Such wickedness in the depth of dark thoughts.

Madness of harsh words spreads
Like wildfire, firecrackers shooting
High into the stratosphere.

Charging at lightning speed
Only to burst out, creating loud
Roars across the sky.

Whenever paths
Cross, it’s a brutal fight!

They are savages and must be stopped…
Nonsense must end…

The gossipers might win the battle
But the truth-tellers will win the war.

All eyes are on you.

Whats all the ******* about having a secret
It's never been before in history or time a sin..
Who ever said one has to tell everyone everything
It's your own business what you know of to begin..

To hell with the nosey gossipers and others in life
A secret is something that you alone only knows..
The rest can go climb back up their lonely trees
You to know stuff the rest that's simply how it goes..

There's no rules that having a secret is any kind of a crime
What's in and in your mind for you alone to know..
The entire rest can try at best to get a life with zest
All the self rightious the gossipers holier than thous it's so..

Everyone has their share of secrets never told in life
Only they want to know yours not you their very own..
Secrets are the little bits of life that's known alone by you
To hell with all who don't have one and have never grown..

Adds a little bit that only belongs to you alone in life
Secrets make life worth living gives a soul a little fire..
Adds a little bit that only belongs to you alone in life..
Not having a secret turns negative imagination into a lier..

Keep your secrets make sure you have got some good one's
Make them romantic as can possibly be loving to say the least..
Have them really worth keeping for a smile later on in life
As to on a bad days give your soul with memory a feast..

Share your secret with one that as well can keep one too
If they are a part of a most beautiful moment just with you..
Giving magic moments all you have to offer at any time
And as a secret they'll come back with a smile in time it's true..

Secrets are beautiful memories of pure gold to remember
But keep them as secrets forever within you alone to know..
If you have not any go make as many that will have you smile
In distant times to come but make them magic if possible it's so..

terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018

Why you're excellent, as you be
Back data assets up & rebooty
Whatcha building over there?
Performative nicety vs. Authentic, genuine care
De-meaning words doesn't strip content of potency, accuracy, just shows a lack of imagination, creativity, care and clarity
Lords of the land were supposed to provide, not take money and chide
Vortexial resonance fields vs. Resistance
Hieros Gamos herostratus and burnt bridges
Hail Mary not pass her like a go-round, no wonder lede was buried instead of being lifted off the ground
Multitask, switchtask, background processes outlast
Self determinaton, loose will, neuromuscular triggering labours past
Anything not bringing ease is a labour, and deserves wage fees if benefitting other deities~
Ancienne previous
Nothing is actually mine
Pop a Placebo fx 2 see
Kaliki Golden Dark Horse Energy
Iku-tihku Emuu Tavatar
Star avatars
Like cutting down a tree to make woodrose
If we're all just a mirror hallucination of eachother, what do you think/say about other people?
Not comprehending something doesnt mean there isn't something profound there to be learned.
Preference of another, is momentary, but crucial
That might involve friction, challenge, and confrontation of a situation
Articulation, translation, communication
Jokes for me, heyoka for yew
Devi takes the W - yew enjoy deviw
If you think I exist amazingly in suffering, I will be brilliant when in capacity and happy... as we all will be...
Multiplayer co-op, not a pvp~ complex single player co-op, actually, where your judge is actually the best form of yourself that knows everything.
If you say so, but why you say it so?
New blood type found, kin
Filleth cups over, use surplus - don't use and discard humans like batters, maximum efficiency and pull energy from excess
Dynamic flow hyperpower
Gimme back those wyrds, spellcasting songs
Palindromic poorroop, soonoos operepo infinifni
When did nerds
What if? (deities song)
"That sounds like a personal issue" preferences vs. judgements, comprehension in communication.
Lemme honour the ancestors by being phi-nominal, matrilineal matroshka polka
Add a yet to it
Immortality vs. Immorality
The Garden of Idun, Yew Tree, Asherah - Pomme de Sang
Tryna be your friend
Kira mari kin, what's your name?
Eagles are pretty vultures that are known by the sound of a hawk.
Heibai try-angles
Wicked faeries and loyal opposition
The mandlebrot set crux point - the chosen
Buoy oh boats
Original thot
Tmesis Pie
What do you want?
Yet to cry, sing or shout at full volume - I care about others around me more than myself, cause I can handle disappointment.
The art of self-deselection
Packets of neuronic bundles
Sympathetic resonant frequencies
Waiting at the finnish line, for another laplander
Standing in the way of flow makes the ******
monkeys comprehend disparity - fight for fairness, rules and bananas
Praise, flattery, advice & criticism
Clarifying Questions~
Basic Instruction Before Leaving Earth, heaven in the astral field
Don't insult your spirit, (can't you hear it?) By copying others.
Can't fool aether, just lie to the self, system be as it is...
Phi-bonna-chi arch and phi-nominal, additionally
Notice what's around
Add what came before
Songs for childish humans
Would a purehearted child stick around to watch?
Perpetual children
Pitch For Kin
Betta zen Mama
Biblios, early facebook, deities spelling it out
X-pyred corpse used to be a nest
Sometimes we have to hear a concept 1000x before it clicks.
Gender is temporary, spirit is not
Pjeunian paradise pleasurecraft
Diff between humans & computers - strange programming languages
Horoscopic cylons
A boy named Susanoo and the story of the sun & moon
Neutrinos and Muons they do what they wanna - Snarky Quarky Boogie
Timey Wimey Jeremy Beremy Hobson Jobson
kulukuset & kolokola: tintinambulation
Can I talk around it?
In the spiritual caste system watchers are worse than golems cause they are everybody's follower, thus lowest wrung... eye in the sky, if it's a wicked eye, is basically just perspective... they are beneath all, just egotistically trapped

High praise:
Ultrasonic Wavecore
Doo be dabbas, da double dragons
Electric eels of sol
Big dumb babies
Wild child doom baby
Perpetual Unicorn of Learning
Pounding Piano Puppies

Two dudes in the cornah touchin tipz, too busy with the space en-forcah heibai brudderhood to care for diz.

Accidental Leakage:
Ron noR recappin ** down
Buttlenecked middlemen chugging diarrhea in a filthy trickledownz system
sense-a-bull
Time-tellingTriangularizartion
Sassy rebukes in the moment instead of beta ****** gossipers when a person can't defend themselves...
******* singing
Hallelu-sin-nation
Cause 7 8 9

In the distance, I hear:
Faint footsteps
Like the whispers of gossipers
In the corners
Eager to tell my darkest secrets

The sound of plastic against carpet
Like the pats against
Children's backs that
I never experienced.
That reassurance that
Someone cared about you.
Someone noticed you.  
Someone loved you.
Yeah, I never got that.

Muffled breaths
Like the sound of my tears
Drifting ever so quickly
Into my pillow as
I cry myself to sleep.

The oh so familiar
Whirring sound of a vacuum
Like the feeling when
My anxiety ***** up
The life out of me
Exhausts me until
I struggle for air.

A lion had his eye on three bulls
That grazed in a farmer's grassy field.
Being close together always
Provided them with a safety shield.

The lion longed to capture them
And eat them up with utmost joy,
But due to their strength in unity,
He desperately needed a ploy.

His plan: to whisper damaging gossip
Among the bulls to make them suspicious
Of one another. And we all know
That gossipers can be malicious.

The lion's strategy worked like a charm--
Just as he had anticipated.
Each of the bulls grew to dislike
The others, and thus they separated.

The field was large enough that each
Could graze alone in a different section.
Of course, since they were on their own,
They no longer had the same protection.

Then the lion moved in on the three,
Eating them one by one, which shows
That quarrels among friends provide
Opportunities for foes.

By the way, if the lion
Devoured all three, he HAD to be full.
Can a lion be that famished?
Or do you think it's a lot of bull?

-by Bob B (8-24-21)

°An Aesop fable, "The Lion and the Bulls," retold here in verse