If I were to choose a statue to be put at Madame Tussauds,
It would Mom's,
Not mine,yours or ours,
Just Mum's.
If I were told to save and harvest
water,
It would be mum's tears,
Silver drops,more precious than diamonds.
Tears she shed's in silence for us.
If I were to give award for best winning receipes,
It would be mum's
Her receipe would always have the special ingredient  called LOVE.
If I were to give an award for endurance,
It would be mum's
If we are sick or in trouble,
She would be prostrate in prayers till we are safe.
The list goes on,
That is a mother and motherhood.
Her day is us, her night is us,
Her UNIVERSE is us.

stay up all night
my eyes are red from crying
ask me how did i sleep
i say, "just fine"

i admit i haven't been alright

its just one of those days
but its everyday
and i never have the urge to change

something inside
its different in me..
no longer alive
i don't even breathe

a prisoner in disguise
a prisoner in my own mind
in my bed full of lies

academy award for the actress I've become

I Appreciate the Blaze and the Glory
To Die in Nashville Tennessee
It was a Fluke
But to have come this far
As the focus of much anger
Certainly its been reckless
But this is my way
I never ran at the first sign of Life
* *
For I am Known
For just 42 Words
A would be Superstar
I won and I performed
* *
I'll say it three times
Thank You
Although the Sickness now abides in me
I've left a Soundtrack you can afford
For Future Worlds
I'm not going to miss you

Meryl Streep

'Twas was kind to me once Golden Globe
where her platitude slightly disingenuous
while her free spirit inside of me spoke
though she'd wander in spite of an Edsel
'twas driven in wake of free speech
and determined to die forthwith misery in chocolate.

I ran to the top
About to roar;

I held back instead
That unsullied feeling
Before anything is ever said

Take a second,
My heart raced
Not often enough
We relish.

A triumph so sweet
Silence leaves my lips;
Our secret
I stayed speechless.

Once I unleash the words
They belong to the world.

Papier-mâché skin held up by toothpick bones.
Composed of dainty flowers,
Paired with eggshell tiptoes

Used for skipping and prancing –
Prim, proper, polished
And petite, satin-gloved hands

To scrub the dishes with
Till unblemished to mirror you back, from inside out –
Purged, chaste, elegant.

Fragile.

But papier-mâché has layers of depth and
Skin thicker than at surface it seems.
Toothpicks can pick up the pieces

Of each hiccup or calamity,
Regardless of how small
And despite their size they’re not weak at all,

But, piercing.
Those eggshells shield and yield
The precious prosper of young.

Who’s to say you’re no cactus,
And not just some flimsy petal –
But you can bet you’re just as sweet.

We are composed of the iron
That presses your clothes.
Nip

Like the scorching tea served
On china platters.
Our rosé lips are pursed

Not to kiss, or gloss for backwards fairytales
‘Prince Charming’ turned frogs
But in revolt.

And revolt we will.