When you thought that the Wrap
Has already woven around
You - grasping so tightly that you can no longer
Break Free.


So it is. Your Mind has made use
Of its own Wrap.


You Wonder - then tremble of how and when
The Tomorrows of Anxiety would be:
Fate? Desire? Luck?
It's a Query too young for a Response, I say.


Thus one must wait and be Aware.
Pray that such Outcomes will Turn on your end
And spray Parfum on your Lair.


To Worry is easy; But to be Aware takes skill.
The rotting smell of Fish would be likely to spot
But to realise that as the Tastes are not
To be eaten is an Uncertain Rule for us, Deaf-Dumbers
Or maybe those who don't know at all.


Every Problem has a Solution
Despite how such Solutions are Encrypted.
But to Worry - Does it have
Something? Or none?


What about God? Isn't He the Perfect Being
For all your Worries? Would not a little Murmur
To His Name
Revive you once more?


It's then for you how to deal with these Worries.
To Worry: A Title so harmoniously fed
To the Traitors.
So the Question remains: Why Worry on so many Things?

God is with us - WHY.....?

It's here! It's here! One of the Best
And Brightest Days
Now's the Time to rev-up our Ways.


That Glazing Star, which spits the
Rays
Shone brightly through Helios, the
Highest Display.


Beaches un-roll their sleek-forming sands
As Pools de-frost their blue-tanned waves.
Swimmers do dive, and enjoy the Save
In Iberia's Coast rescue in Grand.


There are many Events in
This Hot-Baste Holiday
Worry not; For it will slowly
Pass Away
About a month-two - quill, quite awhilst
Just enough for me to produce
More Words in-rhyme.


Writing on Holidays must always be fun
For Experiences like these, pressed
Under the Sun
Tram-Tracked Thoughts, which does
Hurt to remember
Will be preserved - thanks to November.


Family, Friends, Extensions and Strangers
There the Bunch starts to get all blokey
Boring Concepts, birth these Megaphone Chaps
You world prefer to dance on their laps.


Maybe what I said meant something else
Those Words of mine touched Heart and felt
Such gradual boredom - in time I agree
For tunnelling Facts, with Evidence plead.


Nevertheless, let the Holidays sing
And let our Lives live that Full Extract.
Be Happy, Gay and Humble in Kind
For once the Headmaster whistles, you'll
Have a Sortie ahead.

The Greatest Gift of All
Comes from our Helper,
Our Heavenly Father.


Who, with Great Mercy
Bore His Only Son, the Divine Fruit
To redeem us from the Fires of Sin
And the Smoke of Anarchy.


Shining from the Son,
There are other Great Gifts given
On-the-Run
And each of them Play a certain Role in Life
While others could reimburse their fife.


Love,
The most Important
Which always keeps Constant
To the Heart.
Taping two People; Then stapling the Many
To God's Unbiased Paper.
A Work of Art.

This is an Instrument a Verser must have
Without it, we cannot Write with Love.


This Tool, yet so small
Does so many for All.


Ink-Filled Skinney,
With a ball-soaked head.
Passing-out stains of Blue Blood
And creating Words which Read.


People throughout Literacy
Seek for this Sword.
To furnish their own Feelings
And Bsuiness in the Ring.


It all started,
With a large, downey feather
From the Swan's sacrifice,
Dipping the tip with sticky paint,
And scribbling onto leather.


Paper, in progression, was its Factor
Then came the Fountain - Civil Man's writing major.


This Pen does well
And so does much.
Ink goes up,
Goes down,
Though still plans to Blot.


However it may be,
How the Ball-Point was born.
"This is way Better!" People would say
And now - the New Century - is still
Used today.


And because of it,
Production was born
In Business, Literary and most
Of all - Journalism
Was so Progressive.


And so this ends,
This Tale of the Happy Ballpen.
Of Friend's in-take,
Which is needed much in the Open.

T'was the Time when Light hasn't come
Thus filled the Air with Old-Smelling Rhum
Or Gas-Lamps, or Candles of Wax
Do make this Darkened City a mass.

The Source of Great Power has fell
This Time unknown which we cannot tell
The Heat as the Night, how Great it was
When Cooling Converters has made its loss.

People complain, here and there
For Power to return, unable to Dare
At this rate in which they have had Enough
It's now their Turn to be so Rough.

Banners flow in tiles across
The Head of whom around is Boss
Saying, "Power come! Power come!
Hear me now, don't be Dumb!"

As the Night comes with Loser Heat
The Rebellious Mass was still hard to beat
Sources say to drive them out
Not by Force, but by Pout.

"We've had Enough!" the People said
Thus they storm to the Company's Head
Defense Forces pull them back
But the People threw them in the Stacks.

Just then, in Time's time an Electrician
Came through. Stating:
"All is well's tripe! I've cleared the Electric Hue!"

The People heard, but didn't say a Word
To realise: "We have dumped ourselves like birds."

Forgiveness, they spoke. And Cooler Thoughts
Do process
Clearing-up the Debris; And brooming-out the Mess.

Lights have returned; The Power recharged
Peace has settled once again; With the Culprit
At-large.

Come in and enjoy the Night-Light Hotel
Where Pillows and Perfumes meet and relax
And Therapy takes either Bond or Belle
And Goldfish blow this Friday's Bubbly Sax
Here upon registry your Token awaits
The Flannel up-hook which you strip and wear
Then wait for your turn as your Number rebates
A little whilst knowing your Musk reeks there
I for one made this Malicious Decide
And tempt my ****** to swallow this Treat:
Upper-Lower Left; Upper-Lower Right
Then descend into Base - Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh!
Stud or Salome, let Conscience give choose
But trust me to say I am a Man too.

One so Young as to inspire Relief
Yet in my Terms he sought to disobey
Which, after all, Authority as brief
Drag those Arid Racers spit for the day
The Ocean warms. One the Spoon cannot stir
Since your Recipe in Past News remit
Harboured by Fortiments made such Themes blur
And braised Emotion to your Benefit
Now the Angel speaks. And speaks on the Rough
Submitting her summed Haloes for your Shield
That, deserving, made Plastic on your Rough
And caused the Tabloids to Honour your Field.
Coward! Take the Rod and hamper my Back
For Manhood you own; And Conscience you lack.