THOMas JEFFERson

Many are the words of a man

But only one actually matters most

Many are the ways of happiness

Yet no one actually gets them all

Pursue happiness and you can't get it at all

There is a newfoundland

But the ruler was tied by hand

This Kingdom made of fools

Who call themselves workers

Used by machines as tools

Called by the name brokers

A journey of thousand miles

Must not start with a hop

Joy not backed by smiles

Is like climbing stairs from the top

Pursuit of happiness is waste

So long as you change your taste

Go ask President Jefferson

Why he chose to teach that lesson

Had he not in America everything?

Why does he encourage nothing?

Everyone around seems searching

And no one is actually finding

Pursue happiness and never feel satisfied

Like busy bees, they move about in traffic

While I stand alone so terrific

Although almost all happy

It seems they still need money

Search for love and what you get isn't true

Just be sure that life doesn't misconstrue

Good messages are hard to come by

But the artist provides most for free

But since we don't observe as passers by

They're unnoticeable in our Gigo spree.

But one day

We shall stop paying the taxes

Quit running to the post boxes

No longer wear our tight suits

Wait not for the Friday bank alerts

From our crafts we'll become experts

We shall no more pursue

Yet find happiness even without a shoe.

WHEN I GROW UP

Now I don’t know what to think, but some day it will all be in ink. I look without seeing, am I even a human being. To me, everything exists without meaning. My language is a cry, but I only calm myself with a smile. Today I take milk, but tomorrow I will break bones. Now am wrapped in silk, but soon I will wear clothes. Hmm! They leave me in pampers, am now among toddlers. Both the young and old handle me. Love and admiration are all I can see. Sometimes how hurtful it can be, especially when bathed by the geriatric. I have no option than to accept their plea. In fact a little smile does the trick. I am now a boy but frankly, am coy. I can’t even cook but I can eat yolk. Where is all the tenderness, where is all the care? How come all this harshness, why all these snare? My ideas are not significant, as tiny as an ant. All my vocals create fun, commonly ignored with laughter. I hate this pan; maybe, I should sound louder. But my cry is an unnoticed plea When shall I be free, I wish I ...

YOUR own PEN

Something mostly divine, Sometimes, it's ours to define. Unlike the plant called Vine, Destiny seldom has pine. And it is our duty to prune and refine. From the feet till we see the spine. It may be a good omen, To which we shout Amen. It might have a fault to mend or dirt to filter, Which might make us think that God did falter. But we can write our own destiny. Yes, we always do. Remember that road you used to the mill, The particular person you talked to, Has it not been your own will? When you wanted to learn, Even when in prayer you did yearn, You took that training seriously, And you passed out successfully, That was your own destiny. That was your pen on paper. When you write, no one can alter. I am the secretary of the God you don't know. Now wait while I print yours out to show. Written down by you as white as snow.

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