To see how the sun went down in violence
on the west side of Chicago inner city
As I stood there in misbelieved with my
Poet’s pen, observing and documenting:

The situation was getting out of hand:
loud crashing sound became a shamble
  of small glassy diamonds glittered
in the  heat of the night:

  The longing, restless soul,
Chanted no justice, no ******* peace
Repeats like my ancestors drums,:

The sun went down on the town
Like the pied piper of Hamlin
As the youth, cry out for justice,
the merchant cry out to Jesus
to save their  fine  pearls,
the family legacy”
as the the restless crowd moved on with the crimes
Looting, fighting and misbehaving.

The police officers planted more rocks
On every corner, of the streets,
No justice no peace

Marching with the youths with their
Pants hanging low, in solidarity
.Ignoring the warning of the authorities
Their faces rage with anger.
Their mind made up.....

Long Lasting pepper spray set in like a finish touch
The crowd grew larger and larger..
The sun went down with blood shed
    While I stood there capturing history of the restless
  
Moaning for their mothers arms while
Pleading, resisting, please officers,
“What’s all this all for
Black lives don’t matter..

In the chill of a dreary April day,
I find myself wandering through the dimness,
My eyes were straining in the absence of light.
As I approach the door, a sense of familiarity washes over me, pulling me back to a time of comfort and solace.
The thought of retreating to the inviting embrace of my warm bed beckons me like a gentle siren, contrasting sharply with the biting cold that surrounds me.
In this moment, I realize that in this vast expanse of uncertainty, there is only one clear path to follow—one that leads back to the refuge of my blankets and dreams.

Too Much to Handle**

These days, I find myself captivated by TikTok, spending hours scrolling through its endless stream of content, even more than I indulge in writing my poetry. Ouch! It feels like a betrayal to my creative spirit. My body is not merely flesh ready to be consumed; it’s a sacred vessel, a fortress to protect. Each harsh word affects me deeply. My body is my temple, a sweet Floribbean honeydew, yet tonight, my room feels suffocatingly crowded.

Thoughts of past relationships swirl around me like unwanted guests—those side thoughts, the ghosts of exes, and looming large, there you are… John Crow, an unwelcome reminder of what once was. I remind myself that my poems serve as messages, heartfelt whispers from me to myself. This evening, I’m finding calm that rivals even the most tranquil sea. The Pacific Ocean may be fierce and tumultuous, but tonight, my inner peace feels stronger.

Writing about my pain extracts the rawest emotions, breathing life into my work. It’s interesting how deep suffering can propel one into a profound journey of self-discovery. In love, though, I often lose sight of my true self, questioning, who am I really beneath the layers of affection?

I feel like I flick between different versions of myself, switching from a past that was less than inviting, wrapped in my own illusions. I once believed you were the king of my castle, my protector in a world of chaos.

Tomorrow, I plan to rise with clarity, sober from the wine that never touched my lips tonight, and then, I hope to navigate the adult decisions that await me with newfound wisdom.

Breathe Again

Did I have years of experience
Or was it years of daily repeats
I must have had, my confidence had suffered,
Those pop-up painful memories
In my love life and work experience I feud daily
Here I am today as I am aging,
I developed this thing called
“I just don’t give a ****”
About after I am gone,
Just buried me under a tree,
Speak to me, my inner child:
Speak to me, like how you did in my past:
Were you guiding me or were you misleading me?
Lots of stories to be told,
The one who tells the best story
Were mostly observant of the craft,
Speak, to me, I was so blind, I was so lost
Nave, during those years of uncertainty.
What I had to endure, to make a living,
Those voices, those faces, those oppressors
Where are they now?
Here I am still feuding with the trauma
Speak to me, my inner child.
In slow motion my poetic, voice,
Entwined with my emotions,
Coyote and I travel Brooklyn Street without fear,
I am black by nature
Proud by choice, coyote I rather walk with the tiger,
Now they are studying my every move,
My internet posts, my TikTok text
Once again, no edits, only Al filters,
Lamb of God I look to thee
I was once that frightened inner child.

He Choose to Grow Weak

Could you help me understand the complexities of our actions? When joy fills our hearts, we radiate positivity, but when sadness washes over us, it feels like an ache that permeates our very being (Proverb 17:22).

How can we support you if we remain in the dark about your feelings? You often bury your emotions deep within, creating a pressure cooker of unresolved thoughts and pain. In those shadows, you find yourself hiding away, tears spilling down your cheeks. Why did you choose to stay trapped in that desolate, lonely space? Remember, reaching out for help is not a sign of failure; it is a brave step toward healing.

Life resembles a resilient tree, swaying gracefully when the winds are gentle, yet vulnerable when fierce gusts challenge its strength. Why did you hesitate to step into the light from that somber, solitary existence? Like a tall, proud tree that can snap under overwhelming force, you, too, risk breaking under the weight of isolation.

Recognize that asking for help isn’t a trick or a sign of weakness. Carrying the burden alone is a choice that ultimately leads to a gradual decline in strength. Once again, you may feel like a small child, uncertain and timid. You declare, “Mommy, I am a big boy now. I can do everything by myself.” But in that misguided belief, darkness thickens, and the innocent are caught in the turmoil of your struggle.

Earth, is receiving an unwanted guest:
A total disgrace, a worldly test
It surface in the dead of winter, as the
Silence invaded our towns, watchful
Stares from every human eyes:

In hopes that this is all lies, because of it
It teaches everyone how to pray
In the heart of this crisis.. We are self-quarantine:
Living in fear or living by fear is very different to feeling our fears.

Poetry Nevers makes nothing happens,
It make us think of the words, it make us become vigilant
Is this the end of civilization?
Is the corona virus, the anti-Christ?
Earth is receiving an unwanted guest
Stares from every human eyes,

Fear, in the heart of every man and child
Teach us how to believe and pray.
Is this the rapture???

There was an older man who was not very liked.
He sits and draws cartoon characters based on his childhood abusers, often saying their names out loud.

He remembers people who have passed away and calls them "*******."
He sometimes feels like crying but holds back, worried he might not like the taste of his tears.  "his tears taste like bitter memories of his parents' criticism:

I haven’t seen my friend Eugene for several weeks. He is in the hospital with pain no one can explain. I miss our chats in the dayroom. I especially loved seeing his face light up when we talked about his Aunt Harriet and Uncle Jack, about her favorite cookies and his fishing trips at the lake with them.

Eugene never had good things to say about his parents. His father told him to ******* to relieve pressure, and his mother told him to run from the bullies. His therapist constantly told him he wouldn’t amount to anything, which made him angry and sad.
He sometimes wishes he had never been born because he feels rejected and looked down upon.

I care about my friend. Sometimes we talk about poetry. I gave him my favorite pen to help him express his feelings.
Poetry is important to me, and I choose to show empathy.
We need to share the stories of those who cannot defend themselves.

That was in 2017; he is long gone, my friend Eugene; however, I will never forget our small talk.  

Continue to rest in peace, my dayroom friend.

In the profound darkness of a frigid night, I can hear his labored breathing. He appeared to be worn out yesterday. Today, I find myself fatigued by the wounds of love, exhausted by my inability to trust in this concept we call love completely.
Love is meant to be gentle; love is meant to be forgiving. While he longs to cuddle, I simply desire to rest. Inspiration for a poem strikes me unexpectedly, often during the most mundane moments.

I cherish his smile; I enjoy the sensation of his rough, unshaven stubble against my skin. As I write, I continually reinvent myself—Joy Harjo. Yet, with each word, I also remember the struggles and painful moments I’ve encountered. I think back to betrayal—Annie Lander.
It wasn't merely infidelity; it was the haunting vision of my partner engaging intimately with others, eliciting their cries.

My restless thoughts persist in posing questions that elude answers. Still, I have sought divine protection for my well-being. May my fears transform into verses that help me grasp why the most agonizing experience on this earth is to love a man.

“Sometimes, giving all of your love isn't much to save a good soul; it demands soul for a soul as fair payment.” — Gurusharan Singh

She buried him in his wedding attire
They capture a smile upon his face
a smile that reflects the artistic of a mortician’s skills:
Somehow, I saw the kings of
Sudan Dinka, Nuer, and Anouk
Smoothest, darkest, flawless pigmentation
in Africa

I stood there; I touch his face,
And I whispered why, why now,
I think I heard him said from a distance
Ma lady, every little thing is going to be alright”
I never meant to causes you pain, I never meant
To make you feel ashamed,

Try to remember, why we met,
And why I must leave now..
As they rewind the lid down,
I said it okay, its okay for now>
The father knows best..

Pain, regret—your sobbing;
And again, quiet—her gravely somber,
How could you. How could you!
Willingly, agreed to the ashes,
a very old ancient ritual:

I remember a mortal man: without the bold red
Now it’s jar of some kind.
Did he really exist, did he really?
Walk this earth, walk the block
Made those provocative laughter
During the moments, throughout the movies,
I remember this mortal man
Not a jar of ashes  pure marlarkey
We cannot kneel at his grave
Or read his tomb stones.
Wasn’t he his children hero?
A friend of a friend of a friend;

The man with the car who had the broken muffler?
The man who chosen the white ******
While she took a warm shower, and patiently
Waits for her to come back to his bed:

That face we love is truly missing
The voice we know will slowly fade:
Back half is this really true…,  is it the end?

That Toothpick was like an emoji

What became of the elderly man who habitually lingered outside the pub, a toothpick perpetually perched between his lips?
I often pondered the significance of that toothpick—it seemed to serve as a silent emblem, a mysterious token of his unspoken thoughts.

As children, we absorb the world around us, processing our myriad experiences as we grow. When we reach adulthood, we find ourselves striving to unravel the complexities of those early moments.

I’ve always been captivated by the habits of grandmothers, particularly the way many would discreetly tuck their money beneath the layers of their skirts. I can still picture her, clutching her cherished apron, its fabric soft and faded, evidence of countless meals prepared with love. Even when we navigated the lively streets of the city, that apron was her unwavering companion.

Now, reflecting on those customs I once found peculiar, I recognize how the toothpick and the hidden money represented their ways of coping with life’s myriad challenges. The old man who so often graced the pub’s entrance has since passed, joining countless others who have left us. We gathered to honor their lives, sharing fond memories and kind words at their funerals.

Yet for me, the echoes of their lifestyles continue to resonate, capturing fleeting moments of nostalgia that refuse to fade away.

Quiet weep

This inspiring song strongly reinforces our global beliefs, originating from the depths of Africa. The chorus has gained considerable popularity online. While some may argue that it is more radical than spiritual, I respectfully disagree. It resonates deeply with those who hold these beliefs
“No turning back” comes with a lot of meaning, behind this chorus line
I know of a lot of Genz who do believe in religion
But to see how they react to the chorus “I have decided to follow Jesus
Make us believe that we can conquer the devil.
They took up, they crossed and followed thee
Was it the beat in the songs or the lyrics that inspired so many
Of them to get up and dance along?
As poets, we might refer to this as zigging and zagging,
As Genz will probably say, free up your minds
I would say trust the song, not the singer
Distressing without demonstrating.  
Camping without thinking,
Moving gracefully without political approvals
Let them see the youth at their best.
as the Caribbean folks would say during carnival time
We come to play.
No turning back!

Central Park radiates beauty when you’re in love. It transforms into a slice of heaven, where every moment feels like a poet's dream. Imagine harps playing softly and golden crowns illuminating a blissful paradise. As twilight falls, the air is electric with romance; lovers' dreams ignite with every spark.

Experience the enchantment of Central Park, where the artistic and poetic collide in a stunning display. Towering trees and the skyline offer a backdrop that creates a magical atmosphere—truly a gateway to paradise. This space embodies the dreams of poets, filled with vibrant crystals, rubies, diamonds, sapphires, and pearls—or simply a place to relax among nature’s weeds. It’s where love stories unfold.

Colorful hot air balloons drift gracefully above, and the sounds of Bollywood fill the air, creating an enchanting ambiance that continues long after dark.
Come, and let your heart feel the magic of Central Park,
Poetic, artistic, romantic, trees and sky liners Central Park the gates of heaven in clear view,
It’s heavenly yet powerful; Poets dreams Cristal, Ruby, Diamond, Sapphire Pearl or gold or just chilling its tares amongst the weeds Strolling or experiencing it’s where lovers meet; Colorful hot air balloons circle the park
Bollywood again and again after dark

Coral and Limestone**

You can take the country out of me, but the essence of acid lime runs through my veins like an indelible mark of my heritage. Growing up on the island was a unique blessing, where the roots of kinship ran deep and everyone seemed connected by an invisible thread. It was a place where every child knew everyone else's name, and my grandmother, affectionately called Nana, was a beloved matriarch to every little boy and girl in our neighborhood.

As barefoot rats, we wandered freely, our skin kissed by the sun and our laughter echoing through the verdant fields. Parenting in those days was tough love; it wasn’t so much about sparing the rod and spoiling the child, but more about corrections delivered through gentle slaps and back slaps that reminded us of the importance of respect and discipline. Misbehaving was never condoned, and there were no rewards for bad behavior back then.

What I treasure most are the sun-drenched afternoons spent playing outside—running wild amid the soft, prickly grass, chasing vibrant rainbow butterflies fluttering in the warm breeze until the aroma of dinner wafted through the air, summoning us home. I recall the bright sunshine juxtaposed against weeks of refreshing rain, our small island alive with the sounds of nature and the scent of the earth after a downpour. The sense of community was palpable; even the less fortunate neighbors always looked out for one another, embodying a spirit of care that resonated deeply.

There was a peculiar taste to the ground beneath my feet—as if it were infused with lime. I can still picture my cousin, unabashed, munching on chunks of dirt, much to Nana's dismay. Each time, she'd scold him, stressing the importance of clean habits. Yet, every other weekend, we endured our little rituals of castor oil or cod-liver oil, doses that made our bodies shiver with discomfort. Nana called it “cleansing our little souls” and claimed it would build strong bones and teeth, instilling in us the resilience we needed.

Our island was a paradise of coral and limestone, dotted with endless stretches of sugarcane fields that sweetened the air with their fragrance. The tropical rainy season was a vibrant tapestry of life, enriched by resources like petroleum, fish, and natural gas that thrived in our warm climate. What more could any child ask for, other than the simple joys of happiness and safety?

Reflecting on those days, I am enveloped in warm memories of the tender island winds that danced over the hills during breezy afternoons. How could I not give back to this land that shaped my very being?

My heart will forever find its home on the coral and limestone earth,
where the pride and industrious spirit of our little island stand as enduring symbols of our identity. Motto

Love is thinner than a piece of cheesecloth,
transparent yet confusing to navigate.
More conservative than a political debate
More hearts are broken than mended
.
I am determined to search globally for an end to this love.
We desire it fiercely and embrace our fate to heal humanity.

Love may be a fleeting remedy,  
Yet we pursue it with fervent desire,  
Yearning to feel complete.

How many times must someone
How many times must we yearn to feel complete?  
How many times will we be let down by this thing called love?  
He loves me, or he doesn’t.  
I love him, but he chooses to reject my advances.  
His heart clearly desires someone else.

Love is a cross that many of us must bear.
It can be a profound and challenging burden to carry.
However, I feel empathy for its victims in relation to what we call love.
Love cannot be controlled or confined.

Nine, five, one, three—  
Is that truly all that remains of you?  
What fragments of me linger in your mind?  
If only you would take a moment to slow down  
And gaze upon the world that unfolds before you.  

Your way of life is shrouded in enigma.  
Your sixth sense, paired with your keen understanding of women,  
Collapses like a carefully arranged stack of dominoes —  
So unsettling, so uncertain, so trapped in its own confines.  

Please, help me unravel the intricacies of your thoughts.  
You've often claimed that men are creatures of folly,  
Incapable of taming their wild impulses,  
As many chase after fleeting desires  
And consume whatever is placed before them: so you said.  
Sister, sister, if only you could just slow down,  
For we are already halfway through this journey.  

When a past love transforms into merely a chapter  
In the book of our lives,  
It signals that you have reached the finish line of that phase.  
His number still drifts endlessly in my mind—  

Nine, five, one, three, is all that you have left of him.  
Please, help me grasp the depths of it all,  
Why is it so difficult to truly love?

Viable Solution
I am completely detached from that situation. I did not play any role in creating the issue at hand. My focus today is solely on discovering a viable solution.

Why is there such a tendency to place all the blame on artificial intelligence?
In reality, AI empowers us, providing both confidence and clarity as we craft our creative works. When we relied solely on paper currency, we faced the risk of theft, and then credit cards emerged as a safer alternative. Many people continue to voice their concerns, but I fail to see anything inherently wrong with embracing AI in our processes.

I recognize that for some traditional poets, the rapid evolution of technology can feel daunting and overwhelming. Yet, adapting to these changes is essential. I remember when computers first entered the healthcare field to assist in tracking patients' medications. I felt a wave of apprehension at first; however, I can now confidently say that this technology has been a tremendous blessing, making it much easier for me to capture my thoughts and ideas on paper."

I’m back once more.

I spent a long night contemplating which people to remove from my life, the ones who drag me down.
It’s time for a transformation in 2026, a chance to relieve the pressure in my chest.

Like a Maidenform bra that left an imprint,  
What a relief it is to let them go.  
My poem captures both my spoken and silent reflections.  
You may hear my island accent as you go through it.

This past year has been good for me, despite the COVID-19 pandemic that struck in 2020.  
I had a breakdown yesterday, but today I feel somewhat clear-headed. I can truly recognize certain people for who they are: bullies.

I’m refreshing my social circle for my new friends. I haven't shed many tears this year, as I’ve cut back on gambling and focused more on saving, which is positive. Unfortunately, my *** life has plummeted like the temperature in New York to freezing.

My poetry stays authentic and unrefined, yet my smile has grown friendlier towards strangers. I believe I’m starting to appreciate humanity again.

I still have a long journey ahead to rebuild something called trust. I spent another long night reflecting on my strengths and weaknesses.
Growing up, I cherished the biblical tales that resonated with me.
In many instances, the weaker characters are often taken advantage of by the stronger ones; being vulnerable can lead to exploitation, diminishing our self-worth and power. For what? A fleeting moment of intimacy?

Did you notice my tears in my writing? No?
It's not about what you glance at, but rather what you perceive—Thoreau.(quote)

While you gaze up at the ceiling, mulling over your thoughts, the three parts of your brain are functioning together.  
Nevertheless, weaknesses can cause them to drift apart, making me feel as if I have lost touch with myself.

Today is for me to hear my voice. Farewell, my lover; greetings, new friends. Hello, new friends.

My poetry aims to provoke thought and reflection on complex themes of love, lust, and the myriad emotions surrounding humanity. I particularly focused on the raw and often troubling nature of ****** arousal, especially from a male perspective. I wanted to shed light on the painful experiences of women who have endured encounters with womanizers—those whose advances leave a lingering sense of disgust and apprehension. For many, the refrain “once bitten, twice shy” resonates deeply; a reminder of the scars left by past experiences.

Moreover, I draw parallels between politics and personal relationships. Just as politicians are often driven by ambitions of power and prestige—neglecting the true happiness of the masses—so too can intimate interactions become one-sided and manipulative. There’s a piercing moment of vulnerability that comes with being stripped bare emotionally, akin to the experience of a medium rare steak: tender yet exposed, much like the hollow feeling of a faked ******—both experiences leaving one feeling undone.

Among my body of work, I treasure a poem titled “Free *****,” which embodies my wish to let my thoughts roam freely across the vast expanse of the internet. I released my words into the digital ether, hoping they would reach hearts and minds far beyond my immediate surroundings. To my delight, my poems resonated with thousands of readers, sparking a dialogue filled with interpretations and reflections. Many of them encouraged the idea of self-love, urging me to appreciate not only my work but also the journey that birthed it.

What this world truly craves, I believe, is love—sweet love—rather than the pervasive bitterness of hate. I yearn to set my poem free, allowing it to travel far and wide, carried by the currents of thought and emotion, touching lives and fostering connection.

I’ve never been kissed on the dance floor.  
With him, I feel light-hearted,  
but apart, I’m utterly devastated.  
I’m a dreamer, he’s laid-back,  
and without a genuine connection, our love feels  
like scenes from a disconnected game—  
where hate destroys, yet love seeks to heal.  
But with each passing day, my love for him dwindles.  

We are apart because this kind of love cannot thrive.  
We never dance; we never kiss on the dance floor.  
Our rhythms never sync; he lacks that spark,  
and so, a kiss on the dance floor has eluded me.  

Feelings shift when loneliness takes their place.  
Love wavers,  
when a marriage crumbles,  
as I wish and hope our love was strong enough  
to bridge the gap.  
Unlike wildflowers plucked without care,  
my love was stunted,  
never given the chance to blossom.  

Still, I hold a profound respect for him.  
A part of me must make a choice,  
and so I choose happiness; I choose solitude  
over the confusion of pity masquerading as love.

Human Hyenas**

Since the dawn of humanity, the narrative surrounding creation has often placed Adam at the center, positioning him as the architect of the enchanting yet elusive Garden of Eden. However, this romanticized view glosses over a fundamental truth: many women became disillusioned with the carefree dispositions and laid-back attitudes that men often exhibited. Over time, this disconnect led to a collective realization among women; they became increasingly frustrated with behaviors that stifled desire and intimacy in their relationships.

Now, in hindsight, it seems that the damage has been done—too many grievances accumulating without sufficient efforts to mend them. Our world, vibrant and diverse, belongs to all of us, representing a tapestry woven from various perspectives and experiences. It transcends the simplistic archetypes of the average Tom, ****, and Harry. However, the mutual respect that once characterized interactions between men and women has eroded, giving way to a reality where the notion of a man's dominion—founded on outdated theatrical standards—is no longer viable.

Instead, we find ourselves navigating a tumultuous landscape, rife with chaos and confusion, where differing mental attitudes and perspectives collide. In this fractured society, phrases like "I was here first" echo with divisiveness,

The Wicket-Keeper


Today, I learned that a lover I once cherished has passed away. Just yesterday, he was alive, and I never imagined I would feel this way about him. It’s strange how I rarely think about the rain unless it floods my drains, my driveway, or my beloved rose garden, or dampens my happy mood. Yet, here I am, grappling with a deep sadness over his death.

The tender moments we shared will always be etched in my memory, even amidst the ups and downs that relationships bring. Our past was filled with challenges, perhaps I was mistaken, or maybe he was right. But tonight, I find myself reflecting on the love we had. He was my old lover, the wicketkeeper, someone I held dear in my heart, now a distant memory that I will always carry with me.

He captured her charm, serenity, and intelligence in his work. He frequently glanced from the canvas to her face. Asking her not to smile was like asking her not to breathe; patience wasn’t her strong suit.

What’s in a smile? Beauty, and everything! It was a shame that it didn’t showcase a young woman in her prime, the one everyone came to know and love. Her strong features and openness transcended the warmth of a morning rose blooming in spring.

Instead, he painted an autumn theme rather than the warmth of spring. The shape of her face and the curve of her lips were striking, yet they seemed inadequate for someone destined to be a future queen.

That was how I captured him while he slept. That was two years ago. He never contributed anything meaningful to our relationship. Was it love, or was it compassion? I remember those two years well. I told him I would forever love him. What did he do? He sold the link to our happiness. He sold the bike, GH 6615.

Those two years were a peaceful interlude for us, a reminder that what’s in a smile is not always what we think it is.
If I were a carpenter and you were a lady,

In "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,"

I felt my fingernails digging into his back during an intensely charged moment.
I was surprised to see tears rolling down the cheeks of a strong man—he wept!
He sighed!
He reached his ******, time and again.
Was it a display of sportsmanship or a sign of injury?

I often reflect on the character of specific individuals. The character I'm referring to, in a dictionary sense, is not the same as the characters in my book. Writing reveals a person's character like nothing else.

The characters in my poems are never about me; they reflect my willingness to come to terms with them. For the past two years, I have taken on a new character: Who am I? What was I thinking? Who told me I could take on such a huge responsibility?

I have found that friendship is better for business than business is for friendship. I have proven this quote to be true. I always appreciate when someone gives me something, and I cherish that gift until the end.

Years ago, when I was a teenager and times were tough, my cousin and I would borrow things from each other, like clothing. I remember my favorite blouse that I lent to her. I spent almost all my wages to buy that top, yet she took forever to return it to me. One day, I finally mustered the courage to ask her for it back. She promised to return it within a week.

A week passed, then another, and another. I decided to go to her house to retrieve my favorite yellow top. As I walked into her backyard, I saw my yellow silk blouse in the sink, lying in a pile of ***** laundry. My heart stopped for a moment—there it was, green and moldy, crying out to me: "Rescue me!" I couldn't believe my eyes.

She never respected my belongings or those of others. It has been over thirty years, and I still have the pink robe my boss gave me after the birth of my first daughter. I cherish it and appreciate the thoughtfulness behind that wonderful gift. When someone gives us something, we must consider how much they care to choose a token of their love for us.

I often reflect on the character of some people and how they tend to use others. When you can’t come through for them, they sulk and feed on others' sympathy. My advice is this: don’t help people who won’t help themselves. Just walk away and take it from this character.

," I felt my fingernails digging into his back during a profoundly charged moment. It was striking to see tears streaming down the face of this strong man—he was unguarded!
He sighed deeply and reached his ****** again and again.
This was not just a display of sportsmanship;
it was a clear expression of inner turmoil

Saturday Morning Routines**

The familiar smell of wood smoke slowly filled my bedroom, wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. Through my window, I caught sight of the warm, flickering lights from the flambeau, casting dancing shadows on the walls. It was in that moment that I knew it was time to leave the warmth of my bed. The deep, gravelly voice of old man Sealy drifted up to me as he directed his right-hand man to place another log on the fire, ensuring it remained a blazing beacon of warmth.

With a sense of purpose, I slipped into my trusty rubber rain boots, the ones I always wore for early morning adventures, and made my way toward the barn. The soft light of dawn was just beginning to break, illuminating the world in gentle hues of pink and gold.

As I approached, I heard Pappy’s voice calling out, “Hey there, small point! Where do you think you’re going? You should be back in bed!”

But I was determined. I wanted to witness the ritual of pigs being slaughtered, an experience that held both fascination and a sense of solemnity for me. Each Saturday morning, old man Sealy would carry out this age-old tradition on my granddad’s farm. It was a process that ensured the villagers had access to fresh meat—pork, beef, chicken, and lamb—straight from the heart of the countryside.

Pappy had instilled in me a sense of purpose when he often said, "Do not handicap the children by making their lives easy." His words echoed in my mind as I made my way to the pig pens. I felt a mix of trepidation and excitement as I approached, ready to observe the harsh realities of farm life.

As I stood there, I watched the pigs squirm and squeal violently, their cries filled with panic as they sensed what was coming. The lambs trembled nearby, their fearful eyes darting around as they desperately struggled against their fate.

As a young child, I had always understood that these animals were raised to become food. Yet, with the passage of time and a deeper understanding of life and death, I now look back on those mornings with a blend of nostalgia and sadness. Despite the grim circumstances,
I found joy in the camaraderie of those moments, particularly while grilling meat on a stick alongside the village butcher, surrounded by laughter and stories of days gone by.

These vivid childhood memories of the slaughterhouse remain with me, serving as a poignant reminder of the cycle of life and its complexities. What stories do you hold from your own childhood experiences?

Your flesh was never warmer than my passion, a flame more intense than you could ever bear. My love for writing poetry is my secret weapon.
While I may not claim to be gifted
My identity is Black, and words have always motivated me. I can string them together easily, but making them meaningful? That’s the real challenge. Sometimes, I feel madder at life’s complexities than the Mad Hatter himself.

The idea of being in love fills my thoughts, yet this love doesn’t seem to embrace me in return. My mood can shift dramatically, like the changing sky. As the saying goes, I can’t come out to play on a rainy day—no way! Loving from afar and from the heart is a double-edged sword; there are times when I might reach for a bottle of whiskey to cope.

There are moments when I feel like I'm winning, but often, I realize the need to step back and recharge. Living in a fantasy world filled with lies, passion, and fleeting connections can be perilous, like mixing bleach carelessly.

Yet, the words that spill from his lips in his native tongue capture and soften my heart. Today, my heart races with thoughts of him. I am mesmerized by the beauty of his poetic expression. For those forty-five minutes, I found myself pondering, “Have you ever thanked God for such a blessing?" His smile answered that question perfectly.

I let go of my burdens, encouraged by his poetic gesture. With my birthday just five days away, I can’t help but feel my age diminishing in the face of these emotions; oddly enough, my body seems to be laughing at the numbers. Rudderless? Perhaps, but to hell with it! I won’t be docking anytime soon; Ama is on her way to...Ghana
“Today my heart races for you he said in Twi.

Be quiet so you won’t be heard anymore. You might have heard this phrase growing up. Why do people think it’s their job to silence others and stop them from speaking freely?

Every spoken word should be heard, like a loud ringtone from a cell phone that signals someone is calling. Everyone deserves to be heard.

My grandparents and parents believed they should silence me as a poet when I was a child. At one point, I found it hard to speak up. People kept asking why I was so shy. Why was I afraid to talk to adults? My shyness turned into social anxiety. With my friends, though, I spoke confidently. Adults intimidated me because they used commanding language: “Be quiet so you won’t be heard anymore.”

As an adult, I struggle to follow orders or deal with condescension. Maybe that’s why I love writing so much. When I write, only I can hear my voice. It wasn’t until I shared my work that I let others see my thoughts. I had stayed silent for too long and held back my feelings for too long. I decided to confront those who silenced me with my own spoken words.

"Language is powerful; it is the greatest science. It captures the fullness, color, and diversity of the world and of people. It is more valuable than wealth, buildings, ships, religions, paintings, or music." — Walt Whitman.

She takes what isn't hers like a burglar.  
Her spouse wed his lover.  
She shut her eyes and once more she lost him to that witch.  
She views him as all-powerful.  
Finally! She wears his ring.  
Now it’s time to hold her tongue and demonstrate to the world that she belongs to Master Shingh.  
What goes around comes back around; karma is a trickster.  
Now it’s casual intimacy with Tess the slutty switch.  
He smiles; she chuckles.  
He slows down; she accelerates.  
He sneezes, she responds with “bless you.”  
She embarked on her new life without hesitation.  
To her, the man is all-powerful.  
She reverses the ground he treads.  
“Yes, master; no, master”—somehow, she manages to love, respect, and obey.  
She takes things like a thief.

I knew, and you knew, that if I listened to "Unchained Melody," I would have surrendered to yesterday. Without the praises and disappointments, those deep, lingering sighs during moments of passion, our love seemed superficial by comparison. Everything changed the moment I saw his face in my dreams. Suddenly, the sweet sounds of Gheorghe Zamir's "Unchained Melody" called me back; I transformed into the Greek goddess you never recognized. I am free.

My last sigh and our final embrace have settled into dust, leaving only one reminder: your brown jar of honey, untouched, sticky, and outdated, much like your attempts to ****** me. Those negligees you once adored have lost their color, much like yesterday's tears. Everything we once shared feels so unreal, yet I am free—free to love. With each breath and every melody, the intimidation has faded away.

We were everything to each other, and I cherish those nights. However, I have now become the courageous heart of my soul; my fears have lifted, and my smiles are long overdue. A new secret has come to light. Close all doors.

Old Henry Vega**

Countless cantankerous, argumentative old men perennially dwell in a fog of bitterness and regret, endlessly replaying the battles of yesteryear—both on the battlefield and within the confines of their memories.

In stark contrast, Buster the dog lies sprawled comfortably on a threadbare rug, a rusty fishing rod resting in the corner like a forgotten relic. With a soft, playful flick of his ears and a wag of his tail, Buster radiates an innocence that belies the weariness of his master, who remains immobile in his rickety chair, trapped in a world of unyielding stillness. As Buster yearns for the thrill of the outside, his bright, eager eyes search for any sign of movement, desperately hoping for a romp in the sun.

Henry, burdened with creaking joints and the relentless pangs of arthritis, suffers through each day with a grimace etched on his lined face, his varicose veins becoming increasingly pronounced like the grotesque branches of a gnarled tree. In a futile attempt to reclaim his vitality, he dabbles in acupuncture, homeopathy, and osteopathy, but these remedies offer little more than a fleeting escape from his discomfort. Each morning, he reluctantly swallows an overwhelming handful of twenty antacid pills, a grim reminder of his deteriorating health and the number of days left in him.

As he stares into the distance, lost in thoughts of his fading youth, one can’t help but wonder who will inherit the remnants of his will. What would Grandma think of old Henry Vega now, as he morphs into the somber Messiah of misery, a figure encased in sorrow, overshadowed by the weight of his unfulfilled dreams?

If we must confront death this year, let it not be due to neglect,  
Choking and gasping for breath,  
While the virus attacks our bodies  
Because some failed to follow the rules.  

If we must face our end, let it be from natural causes  
So our names do not become yet another  
Mark on the wall of the unfortunate.  
Oh, deception, take the vaccine!  

If I had cherished them sooner, I would have grieved harder,  
But in truth, they never loved me wholly, so I forget their kisses.  
The touch I could have treasured, the smiles that should have resonated—  
It costs too much to remember  
And too little to spark the love within me.  

To consider them freed by death is painful,  
You may think my coldness was my only way of loving them,  
Yet my warm hands remind me that I am alive.  
You couldn’t see my face as you faced your demise.  
I know they wish they had.

Did I have years of experience, or was it just a mix of daily habits? I must have learned something, as my confidence has gone down. Memories that hurt come back to me suddenly, and I struggle with them every day in my love life and at work.

Here I am, getting older, feeling like I don’t really care about what happens after I’m gone. Just put me to rest under a tree.

Talk to me, my inner child. Connect with me like you used to. Were you helping me or leading me astray? I have many stories to share. Those who tell the best stories often pay close attention to their craft.

Speak to me; I was so naive and lost during those uncertain times. What did I have to go through to make a living? Those voices, those faces, those people who hurt me—where are they now? I’m still dealing with the trauma.

Speak to me, my inner child. My poetic voice mixes with my feelings in slow motion. Coyote and I walk the streets of Brooklyn fearlessly. I proudly embrace my blackness by choice. Coyote, I would rather walk alongside the tiger.

Now they watch everything I do—my online posts, my TikTok messages. Once again, no edits, just AI filters. Lamb of God, I look to you.
I was once scared of my inner child.

Eavesdropping**
"A good man is hard to find," my Nana used to say. I remember the day she said it, tears in her eyes as she carefully put money into an envelope for church on a Sunday morning. Earlier that day, she had been yelling at my granddad for what felt like hours. She was really upset with him, and I later discovered that my hero, my grandpa, was having an affair with a woman named Estelline Beckley.
“Ellie, you’re the only woman for me,” my granddad insisted. But Nana didn’t believe him and shut the door in his face. I was scared and confused by all the fighting and, in a moment of panic, I crawled under the table and prayed for the shouting to stop.
For weeks, all Nana did was pray, while my granddad busied himself in the kitchen—burning her cookware and making endless pots of coffee. Nana would often complain to the neighbors about all the “harlots” out there, who she believed had a way of leading good men astray. Even now, I'm puzzled by that expression.
Many years later, I met my mother's half-sister. She looked just like my mother, but she had the same fiery spirit as my granddad. It made me realize that family drama and secrets can follow us through generations, no matter how hard we try to avoid them.