I will be with you anyplace but not tuscaloosa . they are always brewing turmoil thereabouts !
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 17–23, 2026)
Pretty and petite is she
She wears glasses well
She smiles so nicely luv
She sets mine emotions
In internal craving of luv
With a turmoil out of nid
To be with her n to know
All she is about all she be
All she is hiding timidly
Behind that tame smile
Of hers that's me smitten
My one darling of dreams
It is you my heart craves
#254MusingOfRimiLuv
Storm-thoughts churn within,
quiet at first, then rising—
a restless turning.
Even the still air trembles
as my heart searches for calm.
Inner turmoil boiling over,
The stove over heating,
I'm eating from another plate,
Looking straight into the pot,
I can feel how hot it's getting,
I'm sitting right in the middle,
A little of this,
A little of that,
I keep adding stuff to the vat,
Splattering to the floor,
It won't hold anymore,
Bubbling and roaring,
I start exploring,
Thoughts justy pouring out,
Shouting about the turnout,
I doubt it will be any good,
I'm always misunderstood,
Nothing turns out as good,
Like I think it should,
Who would've guessed,
My best wasn't good enough,
I couldn't find the right stuff,
It was a rough ride for sure,
My concoction wasn't pure,
The recipe for my cure,
Was tainted by fury,
Worry kept me from working,
I was always in a hurry,
I'm jerking me back and forth,
Forcing the kettle to crack,
There's no turning back now,
Turmoil is part of the track.
Taking my power back,
I stack up Experience.
Turmoil taunts and tries me
Always standing just outside… free.
Waiting predatorily
To torment, abuse and torture me.
The dichotomy of good and bad.
A judgement I cannot rectify.
So, limited and linear.
I’m so sad.
I’m not the best judge of me,
Begrudgingly.
I can’t stop thinking
My life has been for not.
I wish the pressure of judgement inside me would stop.
Because it stops me.
I could be so much more.
More round and colorful
This me presently is holding something inside
As a way of being.
My feeling is…
If my thinking could set me free
To spirit away on a shameless nonjudgmental breeze
Just maybe I could actually be
The best of me.
The good and true know rest and peace
Simple because without selfish intent
They can lay their burdens down
Moment by moment and so enjoy
The endless journey.
The bad and false know no rest
Because driven by desire
There is no satisfaction
And so their path
Becomes an endless wheel of suffering.
One is like a still pond
In which you can see your clear reflection,
The other a swift rapid
Making waves and turbulent eddies
At every turn.
One knows peace effortlessly
The natural byproduct of life in harmony,
The other knows it only as a dream
Something strived for
But never attained.
(10/26/25)
I had blood on my face. Dirty. Gracious. And… disgusting. Blood dripping on my face. Didn’t know it. It just smelled bad.
When I looked at my face in the mirror, I thought… that the mirror had the blood.
I kept cleaning it. Cleaning it. Rubbing it. With my arms. With my palms. With my fingertips.
At the fatigue, I could get in my fingertips until that blood dripped from my face onto the mirror.
And now I understand that I had a problem. Who caused problems on both me and the mirror.
Now I can clean the blood on my face. But what about the mirror?
The lurking demons,
Lying deep down within me,
Strive against my good.
," I felt my fingernails digging into his back during a profoundly charged moment. It was striking to see tears streaming down the face of this strong man—he was unguarded! He sighed deeply and reached his climax again and again.
This was not just a display of sportsmanship; it was a clear expression of inner turmoil
Why don't I sleep?
Those creepy crawlies under my bed
Those monsters in my closet- they’re
in my head instead
The rotten apple is my heart
I’m alone in the dark
That black blanket pressing
Down, down, down
Cocooned and captured
Yet comforted:
The absence of sounds
Whilst my thoughts drown
Sleeping is for the weak
I’m alert. Sound the sirens, alpha to delta
When am I ever off duty?
I deserve a pay rise
I need a break
I want to feel
I’m stuck as this burnt out star
In the blackening night sky
And I wonder why
black bags under my eyes
Who’s surprised
When I don’t sleep
Sheer me, relieve me
Of some sort of substance
i feel it as the days drifts
Yet night is when I’m still
Grounded in the covers; quilted handcuffs
Maybe I am guilty- is this my penance?
At least in the darkness I can’t see
In the darkness I’m not me
Why don’t I sleep?
Maybe the person in the morning
is not someone I want to be
Something inside tells me
That things are gonna change
The world is in great turmoil
I feel there's lots and lots of pain
The rich are getting richer
And the poor barely get by
Oh Jesus please come help us
Bring this world now back to life
Trapped within the soil
Told stories filled with turmoil
Carrying the weight of black history
But it honours their memory
By always remembering
By never forgetting
Soaked by the tears of the enslaved
Waiting, hoping, praying to be saved
The ground an unknowing witness
To them being worked to death
But in awe of their perseverance
Throughout the years
One thing that remains clear
To the soil is that just because things have progressed
Doesn't mean life for black people is perfect
Racism still exists
It went from slavery to incarceration
To it being prevalent throughout the system
Racism just evolved through each generation
We the soil see everything
And hold the key
To untold black stories
E-ven
V-ery
A-nnoying
J-inx
A-nd
N-egative
E-xperiences
R-eally
O-ffer
J-oyful
O-utcomes
©bfa051525
Monocrostic (Birthday of Evajane C. Rojo)
gates of steel d i
s s
o
l
v e
salt c l
o a
k s the sand-soaked castles ~
a timeless t u
r
m
o
i l
Perhaps I wouldn't move
if the train came.
Not out of courage,
just curiosity.
What does it feel like?
or just the experience, maybe.
I sit down in the shower sometimes
until the water forgets it's warm
and I forget
I have skin.
In that moment,
and that moment only
I think nothing
but oh, I feel-
I feel everything
like a flood, swirling, raging inside,
beating ferociously on the locked doors.
On the surface?
an ingrained smile,
a shrug,
a practiced "whatever."
I'm not good at
being good.
Not when good means
loud, bright, easy.
Sometimes I scream
like my ribs are splitting,
but my voice, my throat-
remain stubbornly silent.
I wish one day,
you would knock,
and no one would answer-
No one would come to the door.
Because perhaps I'd have reached where I've always wanted to be,
or perhaps I'm just not there anymore.
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