True Imposter


She sings the Church songs on Sunday
and tries to emulate the feeling the singer had
In its absence, she taps those soon-to-be
manicured nails on the table
and taps those eight years old Shirleys
that even God would question on the floor
She bows her head and damn near speaks
in tongues that even the tongue can’t decipher
She taps the mind to make it believe, like she does, that She is doing all the right things to make it into Heaven’s God’s grace
She can’t wait ’til Church is over
So She can resume how others see her
All along, She was planning her day

Stubborn Little Girl


Stubborn little girl
Why are your hands in curls
Did you get into a fight today
Did your mommy take your pain away?

You look so cute
In your navy blue suit
How many times did you cry
Before you told another lie?

Can you wait for church on Sunday
Or can you make today your fun day?
Somebody cleans you up so well
It’s just so hard to tell

You see shadows without darkness
And speak to them through harkness
What joy is make-believe
When they won’t let you grieve
Stubborn little girl

Tissues for your Issues


Like a flattering bathing suit

compliments were hurled at you

With reassurances at hand

I reached out and felt the grandstand

Senryus formed on your behalf

Like nursing a new baby calf

My sweet honey you did suckle

Soon the noose formed a belt buckle

The pity parties given without invitation

Later chastised your bleak indignation

Then I opened the box to dry you off

But a buried boned appeared when you coughed

Did I tickle your fancy

like King Necromancy?

Or did you see me as devil

way below your level?

It didn’t take a sleuth

to find the truth

You did it all yourself

by bringing down the shelf

Tissues for your issues are made just right

Perfectly packed though not air-tight

Better in a one-piece

To not show a tear or a crease

The sharks want you to swim

You should be used to them

 

To What Do I Owe The Pleasure


What a bowl of sweet trips

Suggested to speak nice

As if obligated

By the law of prosperity

 

What a bowl of sweet lips

As words displayed

A meaning understood by one

There a true intellectual

 

What a bowl of sweet hips

Petals of Black

From dried and dead roses

A kiss

 

What a bowl of rips

Unable to find truth

No real substance

Filler for the fodder

 

What a bowl of slips

No pinks no views

Catchy headers

Busted body of evidence