Si yo fuera una mujer feliz, Yo exigiría que el mundo sea lleno de margaritas de Gerber. Luminoso y brillante re partiendo alegría en los rostros de encontrado a nadie que los pétalos. Para tener esta felicidad, Voy a disfrutar de la sencillez de los medios de los pétalos Arranca una Él me ama. Y otro,  Él no me ama. Cuando lleguen al final del tallo de la flor Yo pediría más pétalos. Aterricé en la pequeña frase que no me quiero repetir. él no me ama. Y tristemente, esta mujer feliz en el exterior llena la flor de lágrimas mojados, Visible pétalos de rosa y morado. Este pequeño rocío un recuerdo Que más del Cojo lo peor más se pone. Pero  yo adoro a poner esa flor en el pelo Pero esto es una flor media y la ira en mis pechos. Tener este espectáculo pétalo el marrón glaseado sobre mi piel. Los colores suaves y tonos pastan en las líneas secreto de mi cuerpo humano. Él me ama. Él no me ama. Lamentablemente, esta flor se ha quedado sin pétalos Y me han acabado

No, I do not want your Snuggie. Or perhaps I do. Either way, I prefer if you just leave the screen as its the morning, around 2. Nor do I want your ass-spray, your tiddy on, the little bear that sits by your breasts to release the stress when you have your seatbelt on. Nor do I desire the Shamwow soaking up a natural mess or the Burger Slider radiating temperatures as my next food quest. I don't want no nasty ass shavings of the PedEgg near or around my human being And I don't appreciate seeing advertisements of ashiness Clear across my screen. And eff you, Bendaroos What kind of material are you made of anyway? Suppose I get a BumpIt from my hair that even Snookie from Jersey Shore will adore for a windy bad hair day. And what the deuce is a Yoshiblade, and why would I need that anyway? Suppose my beach body will be sweeter-as it is my dream to marry my Mr.Jeter- but is it so necessary to have a slider, glider, rocket and glider for abs that won't shri

I really, really dislike you right now. You are the kind of annoying insect that has the whole world at its disposal yet seeks the company Resting noticeably upon my earlobe buzzing by frequently enough where i want to swat you just for the hell of it. Good for you, you fly by so quick- I really, really dislike you right now. upon comparison, you are the metaphor of a walking hemorrhoid, piles and piles of nothingness and blood vessels of mass hidden under denim jeans and shitty underwear-you know, a pain in the ass. I mean...I really, really dislike you right now. Upon careful reflection, you are comparable to a big heaping serving of hot liver. You smell when I cook you up even in my finest China and make my tastebuds activate in a way that does not satiate. As a matter of fact, you are an insect-a leech. Blood thirsty and hungry sucking the very life of me, stealing the form of any other parasitic exoskeleton, where your inner definitions are proudly displayed. Be

i want to own you. the dust collected upon time swinging from crystal inflected prisms swaying to the to and fro of unorganized drafts from my home. have your light burst into a thousand reflections giving naturalness to cheeks and brows gathered under holiday dinners and special get-togethers. i want to dismantle you piece by piece have your inner workings cleaned by professional staff trained in care and tenderness of golden arches and mahogany woods, marble tile and smooth floors. to have you would mark my reign. the dictators success of tireless nights forged with forgotten memories unclaimed by eighty hour work weeks and missed moments that were pivotal in my life. to have you, i would give this up. forget about the reverberating silence within the home and acoustic walls filled with Bach only to keep the pristine dog company. to have you would mark my climb to the ladder; the descent too far to see as the lonely ants below scatter to work for me. Thos

it started with a kiss. the magnetic brush of skin eclectic and euphoric magnetic folds of lips encompassed in shallow tongue swirling in the this and that of what annunciation  and mispronounced vowels stuttered from the aftershock of what just occurred. it started innocent. fresh and virgin white clinging to dewy rain and barefoot sensations of raw earth and untouched centers. what became more than  the silken cherry burst with intricate feelings reserved for magical lovers and the anonymity of superiority of what shared becomes re-lived in past memories re-told. it began sweet. the dulce of the leche goodness frothed over from bubbling temperatures rising to the core beads of sweat tickling the inner folds and untouched regions upon the nape of the neck crawling to the curvature of the spine enlongating the time where your finger caresses the newness of what what supposed to be clueless after-glowing of what i told him he gave me. but he did not. this freshness

i adore rain. somehow, it suits my soul when the acoustic goodness splish and splashes to this and that near my toes and i excitably coerce my feelings with the wet goodness from the window. perhaps its the way that it feels. moist and new, a metaphor for washing out all that negativity that fills my soul and cleanses the dirt away to allow the brightness shine through. how hypocritical for those to say that they hate the rain. how shallow. how idiotic is it not to fall in love with the weather for making love when sheets are just as dewy as the condensation outside and thunder synchronizes to hip moving rhythms. i adore rain. love the ins and outs of its movements. how each drop is reminiscent of a tear, puddled within mud caked upon grass and fertilizing new growth where death just occurred. how sad and intrinsic to not love the weather that brings life. just as sun alone can endure rays filled with heat seeking missiles swimming beads of sweat across one's br

What is a prayer not genuinely concealed in blackened knees and salty tears Aching backs and quivered voices Hushed secrets and cheeks moistened. What is a prayer not genuinely spoken in shaken hymns and battle scare wounds A thousand hail mary's and jesus-loves-me off tune Seeking light when no one has a candle in sight Finding comfort in dark, hushed corners become fetal positions weakened from a fight. What is prayer not genuinely given in bible proverbs that memories have forgotten new thoughts racing while old history has begotten the sheer will and new testaments made because surely growth endures what life has saved and Jesus take this cross from me cause it seems that it is mighty heavy and I would like a break for a moment a rest in your hand- surely there is nothing like a good old fashioned prayer where you see only one set of footprints in the sand. -b.r.rivera #30in30 9of30 http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com

Upon lying with the King of Gods I declared my gift of night Nine single goddesses to share unique intelligences While I revered in his magnificence with all my might Should my refrain be an ode to Mnemosyne Who shared the lover upon me Or is the birth of a poetic stanza The gift from creation that lies within me. Surely, I shall not detail The shape of the moon or the wink in his eye As history tells it so eloquently The more I share, the silence increases and I die Will my epitaph be filled with soft memories Perhaps a detailed note of Calliope Will my sex be hidden in dance of Terpsichore Or the lyric of sound to sing verse which I adore Perhaps it is free verse in Thaleia Astronomy in Urania Iambic pentameter in Euterpe Skilled onomatopoeia in Polyhymnia. Epic tragedy in Melpomene The syntax in composed literary history Clio clinging to dates that compel mystery Perhaps I will not know Why Zeus made love to me Born creation of muse detailed lovers Although

sweet smell of dewy rain bouncing the mahogany wood to enlarge its fixture and I slowly examine what I see in the jarred door frame catepiller inching out to her freedom. -b.r.rivera #30of30 #7of30 http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com http://writerswrite.ning.com My first Nonet :)

Hello, Stranger. you. the incoming and unrecognizable mass of human flesh that has reincarnated to undesirable egos and unfitting compassionless wonderment of a man. hey, you. I adore how the fascade creeps past my skin to steal a kiss on the cheek. How that soft graze feels like a stinging blade within secretes that you want to excrete. I want to introduce myself to you. Tell you that I would like to know your name, at least find out the syllables to how I would greet you, how a thief in the night you remind me of as you sleep next me in the sheets which enclose us two. Hello, Stranger. i prefer a label. you know, the weird sticky adhesive to put on the chest of your cotton shirt which smells vaguely familiar of a cologne which I inhaled. I would rather see the spark of magic in a marker that spells out a name because the person whom I know and the person that stand in front of me are two and not the same. I do not know you. "hello, my name is:" fill in the

Oh sweet haze How I adore you in a way That makes me want to just sway And elongate your stay To pour you in my veins Have you ebb and flow to convey The way which I want you to play The ground rules that you scathingly sneak away Because I don't want you to leave But I promise you will return And in this wish I will find Another high like this for my eyes to burn To another haze in another day And wish the longevity of her will not go away. -b.r.rivera #30in30 #5in30 http://beverlyrivera.blogspot.com http://writerswrite.ning.com

I strongly believe that incompetence is in your genes. Strongly irritated and highly agitated, I must gather my strength past monosyllabic words and increase my swearing to about 1/3 of my verbal language as the idiocy entails my environment and drives me over the edge. i see stupid people. moronic plethora's of ignorance stacked with congratulations of reading to the innocent and condemning me for using "big words" while you continue to think that the a simple thing as a tree is a verb. hmm...must be a trend. A highly disguised passage of rites as one conceals their synapses out of spite and is it wrong of me to demand once in a while that conversation is swayed more than sex, because substance is my style drawn to not education but intelligence because even a dummy will know that you can be street wise with wit and come across with a swagger of intellect and as empty vessels make the most noise (as MomMom used to say) I have now taken upon her perso

its broken. kinda like the sweet sparrow dropping hard from its nest its wing flapping hard against the dust of the earth eyes wild and unforgiving, trying hard not to feel sorry for itself and establishes within its mind that it has a broken wing. its discarded. merely a decomposed state of composition hidden with maggots and live insects swarming to infect and circumspect the small pieces of flesh exposed from hard calcified bone and marrow. it lays there, a piece blowing in the wind no longer recyclable to be sorted in large aqua blue tubs to be reinvented into plastic cups that once again, someone will throw away. its shattered. a small piece of glass giving way of a thousand shards electrified by the morning glory of the sun reflected in bursts of prisms that personified what used to be a whole but is not even a half of a half of a half any longer. and it cuts. deep, dark, slashing waves into the epidermis causing tickled shock waves to scream to the lu

blades of green moisture hit the dew simultaneously enduring the tracked goodness of un-heeled shoes. i venture. taking each step more carefully than the next. the beaten path lays to the left, but i chose the right. this right. this right that has perfect patches of flowers moistened by last nights rain and suspended dragonflies dance in the secret shade of weeping willows. i am here. treading this new path. of unequaled beauty compared to me. i am so intrigued by the path that lies ahead of me i do not pay attention to what lies before me. i stumble. somehow the green pastures become murky waters and my feet are covered with not sweet earth but dirty soil and i am irritated by my dirty feet. but i continue. i continue to trek through what seems like quicksand, evaporating moisture to what could have been but does not become. because i am stuck. stuck between cobwebs and frivolous vines that block my path. i look in my pocket and find no compass, for i am lost.

Tick-tock. By the look of your wrist, I can tell you can't hear my biological clock. See, I'm hungry. Got this pure satiation for the mere implication to walk down that aisle and give off a smirk to those un-wed bitches to the pimps that drove them wild. shit, as I can recall-nothing is for free. you lubed my udders and now you want to milk by caressing me? tick-tock. talk is cheap. I need you to do that Beyonce remix put a ring on it and let me see that last name entitlement which I crave so hungrily.   Shit. You move too slow. Molasses In your ass and got the wit of Elmer Fudd & Mr. Magoo thinking that I give up the vah-jay-jay for free and then want to chill on my couch and pucker up running up my damn electricity. Don't you know that I got hoes in different area codes, niggas that want to have just a whiff of this just to smell the pure delicateness of the booming inner thighs that have those childbearing hips and once again, I come to my biological clock that you d