Love is like a rose.

It can blossom.

into and beautiful flower.

Or it can fade into the.


Of the night

Female’s Life

we have many cycles to morphs into a grown woman. New born, toddler, teenager, young lady, little woman and finally grown woman.
We go through different stage in our life.One day, life starts happening in front of you and you start to take your own life changing decision. Depending on your choices, you are hanging upside down from your own mess,or you molt into your life lesson. All your experience radically transforms your mind,eventually emerging as a little woman or grown
Woman. But what does that radical transformation entail? How does a little woman rearrange herself into a grown woman ? What happens inside her soul?
First, the little woman digests their feelings, releasing all the pain to dissolve all of its tissues. If you were to cut open their feelings at the right time, you could see how the little woman has disintegrated all of its tissues, except for their memories,
Those memories are to remember what they learned in later stages of their lives as little woman.
Getting a look at different stages as it happens is difficult; risks botching the transformation. But it maintains a what we learn as children, into our adulthood. Becoming a grown woman it’s one long journey but it fulfill your soul. You go through many stages including been a mother and that’s when your soul has been reborn and giving a second chance in life. Woman always evolve my dear. Learn from each mistakes and smile at every new stage of your life. Woman is the definition strong.
—Meriyen Marquez

Prompt for Hour Twenty Three

‘The worst enemy to creativity is selfdoubt.’ – Sylvia Plath

I love this quote. Doubt is something almost all writers face. However it is rarely something we write about. Your prompt is to write about a poem about doubt. It could be self doubt, it could be doubt in terms of creative writing, or it could be about doubt in general.

A Sonnet for George

The dewdrop on the tip of George’s rose

Magnifies the coral, purple and pink

And captures all the garden’s artful prose

And causes feathered friends to pause and think.


His handiwork creates a buzz at church,

For every member wants to take a peak

At butterflies and birds that come to perch.

The bounty has become a yearly treat.


It’s not surprising that George loves to garden;

He’s British, after all, and they are mad

For digging in the dirt, without a pardon.

He has such joy; he seems like just a lad.


I wouldn’t tell him to his face, you know,

But with a spade his eyes and cheeks do glow.

Poem 16: Three A.M. Pancakes

The waitress is sleepy and so am I.
She’s seen better days, and so have I.
I tell her what I’m doing, up writing
poetry until the cows come home.
She pops her gum, her only comment,
and ambles off with the coffee pot.
I want to say, “Please leave it here,”
but this isn’t that kind of place.
For one thing, the carafe isn’t thermal,
so it would get cold quickly, and then
where would I be? I have to be content
to wait until she remembers me, between
the truck driver with the bad cough and
the teenagers texting each other across
the booth behind me, the F word back
and forth. I want to ask if their parents
know where they are, but they have their
poetry, too, as well as their doom. I want

them to stay here forever,

whispering and giggling.

The Grave and the Shroud (Hour Twenty-Two)

She saw the place,

Earth newly disturbed.

The other graves were grassy

And herbed.

But this one was dark with dirt.

And she knew.


But still, she needed to make certain

And pulled away the earthen curtain.

And saw a shroud conceal the face

That brought him carelessly to this place.

How could she tell him this was true?

What would he do?

What would he do?


She removed the gauzy shroud

Hoping to see a different face

But it was his love now still as stone,

An empty vessel of flesh and bone.


She set about to replace

The shroud and dirt upon the face,

And gathered up his his fatal loss,

And left the grave site to the moss.


Small Things

If I knew the last time I saw you was going to be the last time forever

I would have hugged you a little tigheter

I would have looked at you longer

Smiled at you

Enjoyed the way the creases in your eyes made them shine

Noticed the small things about you

it’s all the small things about someone that we miss when they are gone


Recycled Love

Bound inward
Drawn – Drawn

Of a flower
Solid hours
Sound box
Inside you


15. Mother’s Day

Bouquet Flowers

Years had passed

Without a doubt

No card to create

No call to make


Mother is one

Mine is not here

But in my heart

She is allays near


I cried

I prayed

I hoped

I lost


One part of me

When she left…

(Sonnet@2014 From Poems, Thoughts and More)

(Hour 22) 7.30-8.30pm — #74 “Candy Store”

Candy store 

every adult still harbours
a child who hankers after
the candy store of their youth
an old world style lolly shop

whether it was a Willy Wonka
wonderland or Harry Potter’s
Honeydukes — or just the local
deli down the cornershop

nothing tastes that good again
though the chance to timetravel
back before everything got hard
is most likely the sweetest treat


#3. Second last one. OMG