If, one day,  a fairy went to my room and grant me a wish, I would ask her to give a one day tour at fairy tale land.

First, I will seek Cinderella and introduce her the new released washing machine.  I will give her an elegant Primadonna shoes and create an escalator in Prince Charming's castle for her convenience.

Next, I will wake up Aurora from her nightmare with my full blast metallic rock music. I will give her the gift of gorgeousness and she will be called "The Sleeping Gorgeous".

I  will look for Rapunzel's hidden castle and give her a new pixie cut hair. I will suggest her to have an elevator in her elevated castle. I can endorse her Prince the microphone, so it would be effortless for him to shout  "Rapunzel! Let down your hair".

I will also go to Snow White and add bananas, mangoes and cream to her apple and give her the recipe of fruit salad. To maintain her white skin, I will give her BB cream and cherry red lipstick from Mac, for her kissable lips.

Lastly, I will take a photo with the fairy tale characters and post it on Instagram, with a caption "TOUCH DOWN! FAIRY TALE LAND"

…a threefold cord is not quickly broken.
(Ecclesiastes 4:12)


A pastoress once bore a name
which merits neither guilt nor shame;
Pentecosta Charismania
(biblical in megalomania).
Worthy of poetic fame,
a brilliant if unstable flame.
Sincere she was, yet volatile,
she brought it down, revival-style.
At altar calls, she could inspire
tongues of glossolalian fire.
The Devil she would oft rebuke
with lines from John, or Paul, or Luke;
a prophetess on holy crack
was Pentecosta on the attack…

Her nemesis was prudent, able
doctrinally dull—but stable:
Patriciana Presbyteria.
Less given to divine hysteria,
wisdom did adorn her table.
And her soul bore well the label.
No prophecies escaped her lips
nor prone to divinating slips;
this sensible reformed young maid
was made to have and have it made
Elect, correct in doctrine, wit
invested in no counterfeit
her pop’s portfolio lent her worth:
not less than heaven cashed on earth.

Mocking these unseemly heretics
swayed by neither sects nor politics
was Maria Della Romana
Faithful matron, primadonna,
loyal to her Papal rite,
she grieved her sisters by candlelight;
fingered furious rosaries
stormed the gates with St. Peter’s keys
beseeching Jesus that they turn
from devil’s doctrines fit to burn,
rejoin the holy Mother Church
rather than their souls besmirch
with further Antichristian sin.
(She genuflected fit to win.)

God is known in Trinity
but less through femininity:
His three adherents, flamed by One
like braided gold reflecting sun
are Christian fates: three tendencies
or triplicate analyses,
tripartite in judgemental grace
each one assumed, with zealous face
that the other two could not be saved
as sure as Heaven’s roads are paved
with wisdom’s gold and Christ’s pure light.
(They made a most amusing sight.)
Since threefold cords cannot be broken,
let my punchline rest, unspoken.

Her pure thoughts "Ever Smiling" he spiritual

feathered me down

I was on the other side of Spiritual

Bird-like town

I saw the Robin Renewal her tail

through different time

So Subline like the Eight Folds my path

His hands met my heart vine

Birds were singing
Goddess telegraph

How he mapped my tweets
of the graph

Such immortality eyes feather

whispers Imagery

White Peacock of Nirvana
hearing Awwi

Another bam Kaboom and a thumb

All of a sudden in Peacock race

Forestal Gump a box to preach

Then a hoot and scream what a screech

Like some spiritual God came to her

Peacock of heaven her speech flew her

Her Roaring waters feather our soul

Her miles of vision mystical playful

Madonna his love danced to a fling

Oh! Donna changed dark bird took her

Ballerina wings Belladonna brought her wing

like marine of Godly water

The lady perked up like a Primadonna

The Peacocks became her gift his

feathers move to her heart

she was vibrant feathered and note

I love you to the end of the sea part

Ladybird garlands like a Holiday gift

He smiled at her held her wings

what a decadent moment both smiles

to lift

There is a unique happening when you believe your in a fight for your life. It's a tug of war between what your soul purpose is for this life and whether or not you'll succeed.  
So many voices in my head telling me what to do and how and faces of friends and family doing the same.  I just want it all to shut the **** up.  Just let me be or let me die.  I'm not sure of which makes much difference anymore.  
When is the fighting done?  Constantly moving over obstacles thinking there will be a huge
payoff and then ****...next challenge staring you in the face.  Angels and Demons make me feel spiritually bipolar and I'm afraid I've stopped listening.  To bad for them and so sad for me.

Today two years ago I lost my sister to cancer.  She had a fairy like energy and was here to simply love...that was it.  Yet she was so abused by those who couldn't see her in that simplistic beauty.  I miss her.. I feel her with me...but there is an ache you know.
She encouraged me to write and loved everything I did and her support is what made me.
Now I write and wonder why.  Who the **** cares about any of our ****?  Half the people on here are fake, and multi personnas to hide their truth and I too have done the same being Lily Mae.  I had to create her to hide from a stalker many years ago on Hello Poetry.  Now it all feels like ******* and babble.  Yes we all suffer and the loss is the cross bones of our existence.  How many of us love ourselves as is?  I know I don't.  I'm not the perfect bodied primadonna.  No one "wants" me on the outside but if my insides had a ****** shape I'd be ******* wanted 24/7.   So just let me be your friend and fill your fantasies and make you feel good while I have no one making me feel anything.  You know...I try to tell people that when you get that plant that caught your eye you do need to water it...

Maybe all this is just a melancholy blue until I get settled into a new home or fight to save the family home.. Even though my fight feels lost.  
I once told my friend Strider on here before he vanished that all poets are broken.  We all have been that vessel born pristine and then throughout life we fall and become chipped, broken..and then glued or discarded.

That's why we are the glue to the world.  Our love or want of it, our pain and lack of emotion to it anymore, our lust to feed a desire we've never known...we poets rock this world.  Because right now, it's our words good, bad or ugly that are keeping it real.  All the world leaders speak and choke from the place of a verbal armageddon.  **** their flaming words and lies.
  
I'd rather crash and burn in my own way then by the hands the disappointing hollow chocolate Easter Bunny that we thought was solid and bought with high hopes.
None of this makes sense and it contradicts itself in many places and yet that's my point.  Nothing makes sense anymore.  Not even this.