She's a clumsy little human.
Broken beakers, test tubes,
Plates, glassware, door handles,
The antlers of that showpiece deer,
Her bed, her favourite pencil.

Through seventeen (and a half) years of clumsiness
The universe, it's always whispered to her
"However careful you might try to be
Sometimes things, they'll fall out of your clumsy hands
Never on purpose, no satisfactory reason
Leaving you with melancholy ruins.

Sometimes things, they can be fixed
With a little glue and a lot of patience
So fix them before they're lost and
Be ever more careful thereon.
But sometimes things, they can't be fixed
Not with glue nor with patience
And broken they will forever be
So sweep up the pieces gently and
Cast them away sans regret."

She's a clumsy little human.
Broken beakers, test tubes,
Plates, glassware, door handles,
The antlers of that showpiece deer,
Her bed, her favourite pencil,
Trust, hearts and friendships.

Deep in the forest
Fed by the soil
Nourished by the sun and rain
It etched itself onto the sky.
As it receded from the ground
Its wings mourning the upward drift
Retained the earthbound bond
Passed the sky’s nectar into the soil,
Showering gratitude by casting its shadow
For all down below to soothe their weary frames,
Sheltering the potent ones from ravages up
So they like it one day grow into a behemoth.
Once clothed mankind’s nudeness
Now remorselessly denuded by the axe of progress
Twisted gnarled deformed at man’s pleasure,
Wizened mummy, in our room a showpiece furniture!

She picked it up from the seashore.
He encouraged her,
Flattered her with indulgence
To bring back her dying flame.
A girl once again,
She brought it home
In whimsically ebullient innocence!
On the polished floor
In a faraway city
It found it hard to walk
With the load of mollusk
And made a funny sight!
It strained its ears
But there was no sound of the sea,
No saline smell in the air,
Instead the water was sweet and insipid.
It went thirsty.
The food was alien,
It went hungry.
Soon they polished the shell
And celebrated addition of
Another showpiece in their room!
The crab had at last
Found a new home.

Beware: Do not fall in Love with an artist.

An artist is definitely the most dangerous to fall into a relationship with.
You won’t even know you’re the exact facsimile of their work.

They will tear your heart to bits,
more than likely to generate a new showpiece.

They will watch your irises go from fields in bloom to dull skies,
and your black pupils go from metallic to charcoal.

They will be able to stroke your hair softer than a paintbrush,
and watch your little detail emerge from something pallid.

They will be able to memorize the structure of your face,
then round your cheeks and chisel your dimples into rock.

They will sing lightly the melody you’ve made,
as they cling to your torso as if a life source.

Do you see the danger?
For the love of god, beware.

When the intelligent design was
sizzling and shining in the soul,
and the rest were still in deep mute
yet one was playing the lute!
Paradise saw me, to her I drew
and tweet “So beautiful are you.”

Pronto, the heaven turned around,
as if the first light after the eternal night
hovers on her lips like she then spoke.
Hissed to me, “without prejudice
am I by design the enduring showpiece.
So ask me what's indeed the beauty is.”

Without blowing a horn or waxing lyrical I say:
Didn’t it blur before you, that a magic snap?
The first reflection of the feminine form
on your golden spiral smoothed out water,
because she breathed on it, on the spot.
Up till now did you view this intact mirror?

Only one drop, keeping tight into the core with
a shadow of the reflection within doled out.
Instantly croons in and danced through every
river across your one hundred layers.
You are still painting on, go on take your time!

Even the atom from the bottom of the black hole
reaches out to the water, the feminine did it first.
Peering through the water’s skin she floats
with the utmost high-surfaced designs into mirror.
Only the primo wonder of the all one peerless God
looks on it, there is no veil except the one is her!
The Uncreated Word, fluid beyond, finest mellifluent
coined the creation, only to loop back to itself far greater.
Therein the root the first (pure light) feminine rose,
for good ever after blossoming flower!

Took a trip on the Belafonte,
Bound with Cuba to forgotten Sanz.
Dinning on tin canned Del Monte,
A glass of Suntory always in hands.

Lloyd Faversham gifted salacious devices by John Cleese.
Used as props in Mike’s next gin stained showpiece.

The drum-line seemed irksome to J. Jonah.
He’d heard Zach Hill before.
Given limited time, despite the persona.
Interstellar fault found in a **** metaphor.

A swift change to an even more marketable sound.
Sparks didn’t fly when trying to appear profound.

Tiny teen dreams tending to tiny skirts.
Fidgeting with the hem-line.
Their just unintelligible flirts.
Stripping to avoid the breadline.

Dystopian fiction led to dissolution of fact
Can’t seem to see their world isn’t intact.

Atwood to Collins, Collins to a stupid ******* maze.
Alternate choice being a criminal thrill.
Simplistic fantasy whose only benefit is praise.
Popular opinion seems to be well over the hill.

I feel like an unfinished painting
A portrait of a woman
The figure without a name.
I am always
A nearly masterpiece,
The unfinished sequel to
An artist's best work.
Critics will consider
My half shaded eyes
And sheer, lifeless hair
From too little paint strokes
Or careful pressure of a pencil
A pity.
They will declare that I
Could have been a showpiece
And won awards
Maybe they will ask
Why I was never completed
But know not to push the matter
As not to upset the artist.
Instead I am shut up in an attic
A dustsheet hiding me from view
Maybe I have become
Damaged from exposure
To sunlight and damp.
Maybe I have been forgotten
As an unfinished, abandoned project
A mark of shame
For the genius
Whose other works
Were a roaring success.

Legend has it, he was born a dancing flame.
But he doesn't burn because he's angry.
He burns because he's hungry.
A starving artist, ignited by the truth.
Legend has it, he was born in a pool of passion.
The Gods shook with envy because they created a better man on accident.
Earth trembled when he decided to grace it with his footsteps.
He was created to never be tamed.
An invention of rebellion.  
Legend has it, the Grand Canyon was a direct result of his heartbeat.
When he announced his name, the tide shrugged and ate the shores.
His smile made the flowers laugh.
He speaks, and the wind sings through the trees.
A showpiece of devotion.
Legend has it, he's disguised in a *** of ordinary.
He's just a cup of coffee or a faded pair of jeans.
A million other men are labeled with his name.
They say the wind still sometimes whispers through the trees.
He is a heart more profound than a mortal heart could ever dream to be.

Classy J going array, with such sassy display to you’re overbearing dismay. Blasting off today, I’m as cool as sorbet, but yet as hot as soufflé. Everlasting eternities as the cycle goes on for humanity, where some live for the moment and others search for divinity. ****** prey wanting me on their tray, the only thing I’ll give you is the direction to the doorway. Rick Ashley stray’s, I’ll throw yawl back out in the alleyway. Future class, never ever low on gas, if you mess with me, I’ll shatter you like glass. I’ll use a computer bypass, to shove a virus up your ***, not to be played with, bro don’t you know that I’m bats. I don’t butcher the masses, or overburden you like taxes, I’m just your average Joe trying to make good of all this blackness.

Not a sore loser, nor a party pooper dear querying lass, I stand my ground; yeah you bet I got ***** of brass. While some of yawl puff the grass, this creature is trying to cure the world’s tumor created by us jack assess. Don’t run on flats, tackling my demons to the mat, yeah I have gotten through life by crawling down its crevasse! Don’t listen to rumors, some call me a trooper, you have to learn how to maneuver all haters and accusers. Living life by focusing on the hourglass, I’m not one to sit idle peeping out the looking glass. But forget all of that because life is nuts, and I’m just an outlet that slams the hard truth to your guts. Enough with your meaningless chitchat, I’m done with all yawl fretting and *******, time to buck up pussycats. Your listening to a lyrical architect, don’t have time for rats or insects, this is just apart of the classy effect.

I don’t make threats, don’t you forget I make promises that will eventually be met. I’m just a twisted afflicted un-constricted gifted individual who tries his best not to be too cynical. It’s so inconceivable but yet so believable, not your typical rapper, yeah I got principal. I am always original, I am a mystical miracle; yeah I’ll be making sure you know I’m no longer going to be invisible. Beat the odds, unlike all these frauds, I know my place, I’m definitely not a God. Heated rods of critics who keep on trying to burn me, but it just feels like a thorn to me. Street with needs to meet, used to the odds, so don’t think we’ll grovel at your feet. We are not mincemeat, we are not just going to take a backseat, we stubborn as concrete, yeah we are not going to retreat.

Privileged trying to turn us neat and tidy, without them they say we incomplete, that even though we coloured we should strive to be just another ignorant whitey. Don’t you know it’s all about image? We are savages, yet they are the one’s who diseased and burned down our villages. No I don’t seek forgiveness from wily coyotes, we are not a showpiece, like some kind of conquest trophy. No I’m not finished, is there something wrong with your psyche, naughty sly feisty vermin that itch like poison ivy. I politely tell you to ****, love the irony of your fear and hate of aliens, when you yourselves came to this land from a ship, which to us was a UFO. Anyways like I said, I may go off on different tangents or phases, because there are places one needs to tread. I like to educate airheads, I like to make em red; yeah I don’t leave things unsaid.
I want to unthread this sideways planet, if you’re looking for someone who doesn’t mince words; well I’m your prime candidate.

E-town is what I represent, legacy I will cement, rap game I came to resurrect. Let’s rundown the extent of these frequent fallacious formalities, those auto-tuned drugged up wangsters that are the definition of distasteful unoriginality. I frown upon the dissent of where rap ended up, it sure need a classy clean up. I know music is subjective that it is all in perspective, but to me this garbage kids listen to is far from impressive. I find trap music ineffective and unreflective, I don’t respect something so obstructive. That’s just my two cents, and though to me it makes no sense, others may not agree and still listen to that senseless content. What I’m trying say is opinions are like *******, everyone got one, but that’s what makes us unique souls. This is just a part of the classy effect, can’t wait for what happens next, can’t wait for changes to manifest.

When the blackness of night draws in,
I resort to my bedroom window-
My personal theatre.
I dim out the lights inside
To be affected by the light effects outside.

My eyes reflect the flashy hues
Of misty blue and pale crimson.
And here and there stretches of sketched gray:
And here and there a gleaming gold,
Or sadistic sepia,
Of the lamp-posts and headlights
That sweep on the dark road
Not minding the flow of mechanical life.
The edged silver is not to be forgotten;
It jumps in from here and there,
Steaming out of the replicas of the modern age
And also from the conquered Moon and soon to be conquered stars
Reflected off the more higher skyscrapers.
The silver of steel,
The silver of technology-
A mix of white and black,
A mix of light and dark,
A mix of good and bad.

Cars flash before me,
A blur mirroring the speeding age;
The skyscrapers mock the Moon.
Red, Blue, Green, Yellow etc.
The blackness of night
Masked under all the colours of white.
Lights and colours play their stage effects
The age is best to be defined
A flashy showpiece
That forgets the beauty of simplicity,
The beauty that is natural.

My mind wanders lost
On the notes of disturbed city life,
Wherein dims the music of the old good
Hope and memories
Glow like the Moon and stars in this darkness.

I stand stunned,
Just so helpless before
The sights of the modern age.

When I was a child, Monday was ‘Wash Day’.  Not Laundry Day - that was fancy talk. In our house, it was wash day.
On the back porch of our tiny house in a little town in Washington State, was a wringer washing machine. That’s not a brand name, it describes the two rubber rollers that squeeze water out of clothes fed between them when turning.  In the back yard was a weathered wooden bench, turned gray with age and water.  Stored in the garage out beyond that were two big galvanized tubs, one round and one square, with handles on the sides.  This was the necessary equipment to do the washing.

On Mondays, the wash machine came in first.  It was positioned in the center of the little kitchen’s linoleum floor and filled with very hot water from the kitchen sink via a rubber hose that fitted over the hot water faucet.  

Next came the heavy wooden bench, placed between the wash machine and the sink.  Both of the wash tubs were brought in and placed on it and also filled with hot water from the sink.

Into the water in the square tub, Mom swirled Mrs Stewarts bluing, until the water was bluer than the sky.  This helped make the white things whiter and colors brighter.  
Into the round tub went Purex bleach, enough to scent the water and your hands.

Then came the first load of clothes.  With three kids who played outside all day, the pile was big. A measure of White King laundry soap let the clothes be agitated in hot soapy water for 15 minutes.  Then the wringer that topped the electric washing machine would be swiveled to the round tub and the clothes dipped out of the hot water with tongs and fed through it into the bleach water.  clothes with grass stains would get a session on the good old fashioned wash board; scrubbed up and down across those galvanized ridges with Fels Naptha bar soap.  The toughest stains soon gave way, and that item joined the others in the bleach water.

After all the clothes were in the bleach water, the next load went into the wash machine.  After another 15 minutes, the wringer would swivel and the clothes in the bleach would be fed through the wringer into the bluing.

Then with another swivel of the wringer, the clothes in the wash machine would be fed into the bleach, and another load of ***** clothes started their journey.

All the tubs were full now and it became an assembly line.
When the next 15 min were up, the line went in reverse and the wringer swiveled back and forth as needed.  The clothes in the bluing went through the wringer into a large oval wicker basket with handles on each end, ready to be hung with clothes pins on the lines out in the back yard.

The clothes in the bleach went into the bluing and the clothes in the wash machine went into the bleach. Then the washer was loaded again and the process began anew.
This process took most of the day, with the only breaks occurring while the washer did its thing and the two tubs soaked.

Mom used a metal dish pan to make a solution of Argo Starch and water. Things that needed body went into that for a quick dip before being hung up outside, where they became somewhat stiff as they dried.  They would need to be sprinkled with warm water and rolled up to dampen evenly before ironing. Most things washed in those days before Perm Press would need to be ironed.

The clotheslines were thin wire cable, strung up in the back yard.  One set of four lines were attached to the crossbars of 2 sturdy metal poles, sunk into the ground by the Rhubarb bushes and the hen house (we raised a few chickens) and the other two lines ran from the back porch to the garage wall. Before using them, Mom would wrap a damp rag around the wire and wipe each one from one end to the other to be sure they were clean.

Clothes would then be hung up with spring-type wooden clothes pins, taken from a home made cloth bag sewn over a wire coat hanger, so it could hang on the clothesline and slide along as the clothes were being hung up. There was a certain skill in knowing which clothes hung right-side-up and which went upside-down, as there was no fabric softener in those days and clothes tended to take the shape they hung in.

When all the clothes were hung up, the rubber hose was used in reverse to empty the two tubs and the wash machine into the sink. Then the tubs and bench were taken back to their spots in the garage and the wash machine rolled back onto the back porch.  When everything was put away, the wet kitchen floor was mopped dry with a rag mop.

All the neighbors said Mom hung out the cleanest, whitest wash on the block. She was proud of that, though she’d never admit it.

By dusk, it was time to bring all the clothes back in to the house. Sheets and towels were folded and put into dresser drawers. There was no such thing as a linen closet.  Pillow cases would later be ironed, but in my family sheets never were.  Since perm press didn’t exist yet, the cotton got a bit of a rough feel to it from the wind.  I loved crawling in between those rough sheets that smelled of the sun and wind.  Over them were 2 quilts.  One made by my Grandma and  the other by my Mom.  They weren’t showpiece designs, just  functional and warm with designs that used up bits of fabric left over from past sewing projects.

Towels were also a bit rough and got us dry and massaged at the same time

Living in Southwest Washington, legendary for it rainfall and drizzle, there was many a washday when it was all-hands-on-deck to race out and grab things off the lines as the rain began to fall.  On those days lines were attached to built-in hooks back and froth across the kitchen and things were re-hung there. There was also a folding wooden rack that went into the Front Room, which is what we called the Living Room  On those rainy days you threaded your way through rows of damp clothes to get to the sink to get a drink of water. No bottled water in those days, but our little town had very good tasting tap water.

Mom’s hands were always red and shiny by the end of the day from reaching into the various waters to fish things out to put through the wringer into the next tub.  Everything washed went through that wringer 3 different times.

There was a whole mystique about starched clothing. With no Permanent-Press in the 40’s, and the only way to make a cotton shirt or dress look smart was to starch it.  There was skill in knowing the ratio of starch powder to water so the clothes didn’t come out limp when dry or stiff as a board.

Starched clothing needed to be dampened first in order to iron properly.  It was called “sprinkling” the clothes.  A commonly used sprinkler was a tall soda bottle with a cork-stemmed metal cap with holes in it.  You could buy the sprinkler caps at the dime store. This is what Mom used.  

We kids were fascinated by the neighbor who took a mouthful of water, pursed her lips and created a misty spray onto the clothes.  We practiced it but we never figured out how she did  it. Another just dipped her hand into a bowl of water and shook it over the clothes. Pump spray bottles were years away back then. Sprinkled clothes were usually rolled up and left a while to dampen evenly. There was excitement when word got around that rolling up the sprinkled clothes and putting them in the refrigerator for an hour or two produced more even dampening, and you didn’t have to leave them overnight or risk forgetting and finding things dried into a hard ball the next day.

Even more exciting was the advent of the steam iron, which revolutionized the chore.  As a kid I used to earn dimes and nickels for ironing hankies (remember handkerchiefs?) and pillowcases for a neighbor. Kleenex didn’t totally replace cloth handkerchiefs until well into the 1950s. I still enjoy ironing today and hate the wrinkled look currently in fashion. I also have a stack of lace trimmed hankies that are now considered vintage.

I still have a soda bottle sprinkler, a clothespin bag on a hanger full of clothespins.  I also have an unopened bottle of Mrs. Wright’s Bluing, which hasn’t been on the market in years.   It reminds me of other times and other places and  how I would love to slip between those sweet smelling, wind-blown sheets one more time.
ljm

Those late night chats
Your kiddy style flirts
The way you made my heart melt
I still remember how it felt

The phone calls throughout the day
Assuring your care in every way
The miles distance part us today
As you live far far away

The gifts and cards you sent
Seeing these my days went
You never asked for a cent
BUT ONE DAY I LEARNT!

Everything was of show
The relationship was no more
You put me so low
The love dimmed its glow

Now its all pieces to peace
My heart is at ease
My brain tends to freeze
Whenever memories float like breeze

©sim

Its not love
And it sure ain't respect
It isn't that I look up to you,
In fact the opposite.

My decisions you make
My dislikes you dictate
My actions you limit
My dreams you restrict

Confined to the consequences of your past actions
People's interference to view this show
you produce, present, an act all in one,
A one man show
The villain you are
The hero they think
Charming, pleasant and helpful,
Greedy, overbearing and forceful.

A showpiece on your windowsill I remain
Still sane

Psst, Ms. Anthem! I'm talkin' to you,
You don't know what he's gonna do.
He's selling you down at Planet M,
He's ******* you and he's to blame.

Didn't I tell you not to talk to strangers?
Haven't I warned you of the dangers?
Why're you hearing what he's telling you?
I created you; what did he do?

You think he cares about any part of you?
Or what you'll cause the **** blessed to do?
You're his showpiece; he's the front-page story,
You're the sunshine; he basks in your glory.

I mean what I make, every word that I sing,
it's awareness not revolution that I try to bring,
How'll they hear you if it ain't through me?
How'll they know me if I don't cut me a deal?

He's just in it for the name and the fame,
his material thirst puts the causes to shame,
he could've walked around, guitar in hand,
a song on his lips, nights of head in the sand.

How would we then be known in the public domain?
All my efforts would've gone right down the drain.
So I chewed on that cigar; sipped some champagne,
stepped aboard and took a ride on the gravy train.

Now he'll talk of Dylan and other icons of the past,
well Lennon maybe a hero but never working class,
**** Jagger no one buys was a street fighting man,
and the Gallaghers scripted their masterplan,
He could've stayed true,
if he really wanted to...

Well, me and you,
we wouldn't have got our rightful dues,
if I did what he wanted me to,
and stayed pure like a mule...

I rest my case, Ms. Anthem.

I wish to tame a yeti,
who will fetch me power and pride.
A mermaid in my aquarium
to showpiece beauty and love,
Sindbad's Roc bird on my command
will carry my fancies far and wide.
Then my I- a gas filled balloon
will take me beyond my dreams.

22nd.Oct.2016

When I was born my parents smiled,
Welcoming me into the world full of fiends.

In my tender age I developed many aspirations,
To be a doctor, lawyer, artist or a writer by profession.

But in that age I dint realize,
I was a girl and I wasn't allowed to fantasize.
These were just dreams which were meant to be broken,
Similar to the ones which break when you are woken.

As I started growing up the world seemed more brutal,
Objectifying me as a showpiece which is futile.

The men around resembled more like beasts,
Seeing whom the hatered has only increased.
As I walked through the road their eyes scanned me from tip to toe,
Penetrating through my body and tearing my soul.

My temperament could only be described by length of my clothes,
Characterizing me either as cultured or a *****.
If I am loud I am more vulnurable to men,
And if I am soft I am dumb or restrained.

My weight my height my color is a matter of worry,
Coz who would like a fat short dark girl to marry?

There's a problem in all my moves.
So why should I bother and be a fool?

So Now that I don't give a ****!
All the gentlemen out there kindly keep your thoughts mum and mouth shut!

Just a bug here i am
Wishing to fly with no wings
Stuck in these four walls cocoon
Waiting for the change future brings
Dreaming of the places I will reach
With those new shiny spotted wings

Alas!Am I waiting too long or I am just dreamer dud
Am I just a bug boiled in cocoon never to fly
Just a silk showpiece somewhere in someone's cupboard
At the corner where it doesnot even matches the colour codes
Ignored, dusty, never to be reached, never to be felt

I am just a bug wishing to fly
With no wings dreaming of sky

A night that changed the alignments of my stars.
A night that changed the meaning of my existence.
I realised why this universe had made me wait for this.
For this which was so 'ecstatic',
For this which was so 'unsullied'.

I stood on a land of roses
Sky of spring sun
And squall blowing my hair, it's fluanting
It heard someone saying it's the most beautiful thing on Earth.
That was my 'land'.
That was my 'to-be home'.

Bricks of promises
Cement of love
Colours of trust
And furnitures of a bit of lust.
People admired the house
But I loved the land.
It was there all 'lucent'.
It was there all 'proud'.

The spring brought a garden of Tulips
Yellow Daffodils
Purple crocuses
With yellow butterflies crowning them all.
It was the 'bliss'
It was the 'peace'.

In a blink July turned to August.
Skies got harsh on us
Rain washed away the Daffodils
And land got swampier.
My house trembled
Promises broke and love got washed away with rain while trust faded away and lust,
It was just a 'fancy'.
It was just a 'showpiece'.


I was oblivious to the fragility of my house
My brittle house couldn't even withstand the monsoon.
And here I was, befret of my house, my only house.
Weaker than never before, shattered and scattered.
Monsoon went on for long, quite long
Washing away all the cement of my love and hue of trust.
But I was there 'holding the land'.
But I was there 'witnessing the disband'.

Winter came
Froze everything
Nummed my mind
Cracked my skin
And did everything it could to make me leave my land
And I.. I gave in
I left.
But on my way I saw deluged land getting parched.
My land is here
And spring is near.
It was an 'indication'
It was a 'direction'.

Seasons weathered me down
But I planted the bricks again.
But this time it was just a batterd repugnant house.
No colours no furnitures
Just a house.
But it was there
But it was there.

ONE THE FIRST TIME WHEN THEY BOTH MET
HE LIKE HER AND SHE LIKES HIM
AND IF YOUR CALLING THIS
“FIRST SIGHT LOVE” THEN MAYBE YOUR WRONG
BECAUSE AT THE FIRST SIGHT WE LIKE ANTIC THINGS TOO
BUT WE JUST PUT THOSE THINGS AT HOME JUST AS A
“SHOWPIECE”.

JUST BECAUSE YOU BOTH TALK EVERY NIGHT
EVERY TIME AND IF YOU CALL THIS “LOVE”
THEN MAYBE YOUR WRONG
BECAUSE JUST BECAUSE OF THE LONELYNESS
TWO STRANGER CAN TALK TOO

IF SHE SAW A BOY AND HOLD YOUR HAND
AND WHEN YOU SAW A GIRL AND HE HOLD HER HAND
AND YOUR CALLING THIS “CUTE JEALOUSY” AS LOVE
THEN MAYBE YOUR WRONG
BECAUSE WE KEEP BIRDS JUST TO PUT THEM IN A CAGE
NOT TO LET THEM FLY AWAY

AND NOW IF THEY’RE BOTH ABLE TO UNDERSTAND EACH
OTHERS FEELINGS THEN YOU CALLING THIS LOVE
MAYBE YOUR WRONG
BECAUSE WHEN TWO BEGGARS ARE HUNGRY
THEY BOTH CAN FEEL THEY’RE EMPTY STOMACH
BUT THEY CAN GIVE FOOD TO EAT YOU



IF YOUR CELEBRATING YOUR ANNIVERSARY EVERY MONTH
AND YOUR CALLING THIS “LOVE”
THEN MAYBE YOUR WRONG BECAUSE
LOVE NEVER GIVES A DATE TO EXPLAIN YOUR LOVE
IT JUST HAPPENS

IF SHE IS PART OF HIS ALL INSTA AND SNAP STORIES
AND YOUR CALLING THIS LOVE THEN MAYBE YOUR WRONG
BECAUSE YOU CANT LIVE LIFE WITH FILTERS AND SAVE THEM
WE JUST LIVE IT IN THAT TIME,  ON THOSE SPECIAL MOMENTS

BUT….

BEFORE TOUCHING HER BODY YOU TOUCH HER SOUL,
IF SHE SHOWS ALL HER HAPPINESS AND SADNESS,
BEFORE SHE GET NAKED, YOU NAKED YOUR ALL YOUR FEARS,
IF HER EACH ONE TEAR FELL ON YOUR SHOULDER,
AND SHE IS THE REASON OF YOUR SMILE,

THEN MAYBE, NOT MAYBE

IT IS LOVE….. AND IF YOU HAVE FIND THAT LOVE
JUST KEEP IT, NEVER LET IT GO
AND WHENEVER YOU GOT A CHANCE
WHEN EVER JUST TELL YOUR LOVES ONE
THAT “HOW MUCH YOU LOVE THEM”
TELL THEM EVERY MINUTE THAT
“YOU LOVE THEM” THAT

“I ALWAYS LOVE YOU ALWAYS”

My life, defined by lines
Class and boundary lines, Motherhood and tightrope lines
Between being a good woman and a Mistress
What a way to live!

Sometimes i want to toe the line
Other times I wish to  cross the line
Or maybe stay safe behind the lines
Those lines that guides virtues
Don't judge me, unless you have walked my walk

Sometimes I pole vaulted
When i allow them get closer
Even though they are married
Yes, I know the drill
I wanted to feel like a  woman

Don't see me as a loose canyon
Available and randy
You don't know my pain
If you know my pain
Maybe you'll understand my acts...

Like a prey laying low
They seem to easily perceive my needs
They come with those true lies
Enticing with Cars, Houses and cash
I just play ball...  

They offer ***
Because they know the pressures on my libido
...take advantage of my lonely and ***** moments

My lips they ride
Until it is as wide as the sea
Then, off they go!
To another lonely Single Mother
Will these men make heaven?

The cycle never breaks
Each time I cross that line
The joy is but for a moment
I head into a phase of depression
What a way of life

Afterwards, I become a ***** *** slave
A corporate *******
As I soon realise
And in the deadness of the night
Trust me, I tear...

It's about time this stops
I refuse to be a ****** alternative
I detest being a loose ball
Say NO to *** with a Married Man
Say no *** with benefits

Boldly I call off your bluff
Today, I ask you,  loose my number
Loose my house address
The One who gave me the child
Will always be on time. Amen!

You left me for another
"Oh! I should have married you!"
"Story for the gods"
I ain't letting you down there again
You have chosen your path

Live with your decisions
"Your can't eat your cake and have it"
It's not gonna be easy
Because I've got mouths to feed
But I'll pass

Those lonely nights will come
When I'll need a wrap
Just like a married but single lady
Husband based abroad
"Cars" parked at owner's risk?
Those need has to be met, but I'll survive

Even when I need to pay school fees
The solution is not on genitals
Especially of the married
Truth be told
The solution lies with the Ultimate One

Trust and believe Him
He will change your story
Turn your secret tears to cheers
Convert your shame to fame
Because He turns non-entities to celebrities

Whoever taught Rehab, a harlot, liar
Would ever make the list
She enjoyed grace
That grace is still available today
Only if you will...

Give Him a chance
Let Him make you a showpiece
He brought you this far for a purpose
He gave you that child for a reason
Tell me, whose report will you belief?

Please stop these men
They will ruin your life
Wake up and brace up
Look out for a weak single mother
Preach the good news of hope

Look out for single mothers
Share a date, a word
Bond, love, pray and believe
To hell with all these "Zaddys" with benefits"
Yours will soon find you!

Curved ***** will be thrown
Take advantage of life's curve *****
Allow them to transform you
To a very pretty and attractive LIONESS
Whose **** and lips aren't for sale

Enough of irresponsible ****** adventures
Yes! They will come looking for your juice as a  Single Mother
Be a Lioness,  
Fierce, firm and courteous

Are you married? Congratulations
Don't make him regret getting married to you
If you treat him wrong
There are many open arms out there
They will accept and love him scatter

To all those "Wobe Children"
Sleeping with their ancestors
Breaking marriages and homes
Karma is a *****, your time will come
May you be paid in the same coin
Please say "Amen!

Be his *****
Let him be your tool
Exude flirtatious energy for him
Rock those seductive *** shots
Date him all the days of your life.

You were a Queen ab initio
Now, you tie wrapper like my grandmother
Be wise as a serpent
Be like the sons of Isachaar
Times and seasons have changed

Now, get off your high horse
Show that man why he married you
Before they show him all
Why he shouldn't be with you
Like Stella, get your groove back on

Single motherhood is not a curse
Nobody has a right to you
Do not debase yourself
Give yourself some respect
Let's all prove to the world
Single mothers raise Presidents like Obama too

A good man gives without asking
He will never ask you for ***
Even when you offer, he declines
Not all men are promiscuous
Now, this rule applies to both sexes
There are still good people out there

Who wants to hire inexperience
We all love "experience hire"
So, single mothers have experience
Single mothers make good wives
After all, experience is key

To all single Mommas out there!
This is specially for you
You are better than they think
To a life of "Yes I do"
And "Happily ever after"
Please raise your glass!
Cheers!

Babatunde Raimi
Author/Life Coach/Poet

Shattered into
several scraps,
an inner sculptor
surfaces and
I spawn
a shining,
salvaged
showpiece.

prevaricated forth write Declaration!

As most every girl and boy
taught back in the day,
learning base sic life lessons,
when going to Zerns,
(now permanently closed,
but once upon a time one
bustling, flourishing, thriving
Farmers Market formerly
a year-round farmers' market located
in Gilbertsville, Pennsylvania.

It was located along Philadelphia Avenue
near Bartman Avenue,
close to Pennsylvania Route 100.

Two buildings located on the property:
a lowercase "t" shaped main building
and an "L" shaped enclosed
flea market building,
where characters across
all walks of life congregated
gabbled, regaled each the others
akin to golden age of story telling,

when rapt listening ears
willingly leant eager attention
to a riveting speaker
such as this jolly shop
o' horror keeper learned,
modest, and non
establishmentarian obliging self,
(who even now doth still yearns)

to spin a tattling tale, this ole codger,
who today more frequently, keenly,
and patiently plods along
volatile memory lane
visiting woebegone yesteryear
scores of orbitz ago,
those well worn pathways,
could be trekked blindfolded
so often by foot thee trails traversed,
(yet without ever feeling
a sense of duff feet) over hills

and thru woods thick
with wary, scary, nerdy,
and Rem: markably hairy
muppet like monsters,
the author, who wrote
10,000 Leagues Under The Sea,
(and other suspense
filled stories namely
the prolific writer
Jules Gabriel Verne's),
vivid imagination him,

would undoubtedly have experienced
a field day in seventh heaven
taking wooded rough hewn
rudimentary walkabout by turns
clear cut versus creepy simply to reach
a one classroom per grade school,
where masters did teach
being apprenticed asper Art Of The Deal
(latent within power
to sound convincing, though "FAKE,)"

but convincing legendary
personal myths repeated to bolster appeal
such as larger then life "Founding Fathers"
unquestionable brazen, brave, and brass
daring deeds across the Lake
(Atlantic Ocean, whose worsted weave
sub woofer - did make
the 6:00 o'clock news the evening
of July 4th 1776, and thus didst spake
(perhaps with the help of Zarathustra)

yet,...the under belly
of such bravura involved take
king (by subtle or obvious force) lands
revered by Native Americans
leaving a trail of tears,
destruction, and death
(more accurately genocide), thus my
(expected patriotism) moored
within wicked wake,
hence aye avail muted tone deaf

emotion on par with a charade
particularly, where deportees
of late awful treatment
force me to a give a low
*** slant (Failing) grade,
where home of the brave
land of the free (or visa versa)  
do masquerade makes a mockery,
travesty, sham parade
AND this chap feels as if,

he too partook of
murderous indigenous raid
venal business complete,
when every once proud
“Red man” violently slayed
or displayed as token showpiece
bartered analogous
to bustling art house trade
unless demise snatched
uprooted human property
subsequently conveniently waylaid.

The porus mind―
in the vacant chair, thinking
of infidelity or unbelieving― with
folded hands in prayer
like mantis.

Eating moonlight―
a predator will wait
for a victim fall.

In meditation, you
evolve into Zen. The intuition
to ****, the urge― to go
bald and bare.

The kleptomania. Let me steal
your god from your garden―
without any need. Just
a showpiece.

In a death trap
millions of caterpillars die daily.