House is not a Home..
Home is always a person..
Always..!❤️

A social commentary

They are powerful and great,

Sometimes nice but wait,

There are times they scorn you,

There are times their false when its truth is true

There are times they carry a lot

A times they are cold or hot,

Sometimes meaningful int its way

While other times it seems darker than some days.



They can be wonderful at times yes,

Horrified in some days filled with stress,

And there are times you want to shut it down

Or when needed or for it not to make a sound,

Silent is sometimes gold,

Sometimes it gets really, really old,

While there are times to speak very loudly

Then at times it will love or hate or me,

There are times we’ll just do what the Beatles suggest and let it be.



You love me then you hate me

A game for fools you see

But painful not soothing or cool

But rough at times like a fool

Just dumb at times in different times

At times cruel to be kind,

While praising you one hand

Then downing me to kiss your ***

The stab me in the back and then get away fast.



It cuts **** a knife deep

It even haunts me in my sleep,

While killing me softly at times so sadly

Then cussing at me badly,

Your words hurt me so

Deeper than you’ll even know.



Sometimes loud and wrong

And sometimes you’ll sell those words for just a song

Or sometimes *****

Sometimes nerdy,

Sometimes slick

With a little coolness quick as a wick.



Words can be light as a feather

Capable to stand any kind of weather.

It can be strong and tall,

Sometimes fast or not all.

No matter it’s homeland or country

No matter the color it maybe

Or expressions kind or mean

No matter hidden or even seen

Or what wars that battled

Know this much that world do matter,

8 Sept 2021

a battlefield with no blood, just poison
using words not weapons
where every little thing hurts, that's happened
where the soldiers don't sacrifice but disappear
leaving wounds that are severe.

I sit in quiet, alone in thoughts.
Suddenly, I hear your endless whispers calling my name.

They flow like a gentle stream in the bay,
soft and familiar, yet slowly fading.

The fading noise lingers, and I hold on,
though your words slip further from my memory.

I sit in quiet, alone in my thoughts
The silence remains but the thoughts still linger in my head

I may not be gifted in painting
I may not be taught, like the masters, how to ‘properly’ create

But with my words, unsteady and scribbled, flawed and broken,
I paint canvases beyond sight.
I imagine art more beautiful than any Mona Lisa,
I create masterpieces without ever dipping my brush.

My craft is greatly imperfect, cluttered, and poorly expressed,

But still I attempt to write the words that sit waiting deep within my chest

Often I do not understand what I write,

but I must allow my fingers to scrawl each thought

For each word, each story,
is an expression of myself;

a world in all its beauty and ugliness,

and I must share.

Even if no one is listening.