Seeing the smile on my face Can you tell how much pain is in my heart Seeing the shining eyes Can you count the endless tears i shed Seeing me talking to everyone Can you tell how afraid i am in starting a conversation Seeing…

I whisper words onto paper Under a conjured name. It’s delicious, the magic of it; Me, but not myself Mine, but not my own. I drink in the murmured approvals Uttered in keystrokes Sent, ephemeral and Equally anon. It’s addictive, the potion; Fiction, yet reality…

Beads, long hair, bell bottoms so colorful I glowed in the dark. Rebellion at every turn, searching for I knew not what. All I knew was that I was not my father, nor older brother. I loved them for sure, I was cut from a…

I   forced to forced to forced to crouch the am conceal grind my poets pen to lurk spit, blood like chains shattered my muse to dust to avoid clump together the eventual attack  surround me

Stalking, insidious. Walking, meticulous. Crouch. Cheetah getting hungry, and ready. Gazelles look delicious. The last one started to go It was too late, slow, dull. Quite surprising, that those older gazelles sure can run. What a match, met and set No way to ever know…

  Marketers fear loss of fixed income spending. We become Senior Citizens. We buy the Silver insurance plans. We become mature and vintage, Classic not antique. We’re “of a certain age”. What age is that? We’re timeless and ageless beauties. Sexagenarian has the word “sex”….

Say what you want, and speak your mind, be it the most hateful desire or vengeful act of crime. Even a selfish wish, as you yourself may find may be worth pursuing for the sake of this short time.

The sun is high Warmth beams down Day half done and half not made When it was early So much unknown Mystery thrills Memories yet made And when it’s late Hope for a story Better shared than kept

  Walking the streets day and night Begging for food Searching for job Looking for shelter   I wondered Who am I? Where is my place? To sleep tonight!   (Hour Seven – Maritza M. Mejia)

Prompt Six: Que Sera, Sera At the halfway point and the words jumble; arthritis numbs each joint, as fingers fumble. Creative juices, gone, the muse has left me. Pages still undone – what will be, will be. A final attempt – pulling threads of thought;…