Coral and Limestone**

You can take the country out of me, but the essence of acid lime runs through my veins like an indelible mark of my heritage. Growing up on the island was a unique blessing, where the roots of kinship ran deep and everyone seemed connected by an invisible thread. It was a place where every child knew everyone else's name, and my grandmother, affectionately called Nana, was a beloved matriarch to every little boy and girl in our neighborhood.

As barefoot rats, we wandered freely, our skin kissed by the sun and our laughter echoing through the verdant fields. Parenting in those days was tough love; it wasn’t so much about sparing the rod and spoiling the child, but more about corrections delivered through gentle slaps and back slaps that reminded us of the importance of respect and discipline. Misbehaving was never condoned, and there were no rewards for bad behavior back then.

What I treasure most are the sun-drenched afternoons spent playing outside—running wild amid the soft, prickly grass, chasing vibrant rainbow butterflies fluttering in the warm breeze until the aroma of dinner wafted through the air, summoning us home. I recall the bright sunshine juxtaposed against weeks of refreshing rain, our small island alive with the sounds of nature and the scent of the earth after a downpour. The sense of community was palpable; even the less fortunate neighbors always looked out for one another, embodying a spirit of care that resonated deeply.

There was a peculiar taste to the ground beneath my feet—as if it were infused with lime. I can still picture my cousin, unabashed, munching on chunks of dirt, much to Nana's dismay. Each time, she'd scold him, stressing the importance of clean habits. Yet, every other weekend, we endured our little rituals of castor oil or cod-liver oil, doses that made our bodies shiver with discomfort. Nana called it “cleansing our little souls” and claimed it would build strong bones and teeth, instilling in us the resilience we needed.

Our island was a paradise of coral and limestone, dotted with endless stretches of sugarcane fields that sweetened the air with their fragrance. The tropical rainy season was a vibrant tapestry of life, enriched by resources like petroleum, fish, and natural gas that thrived in our warm climate. What more could any child ask for, other than the simple joys of happiness and safety?

Reflecting on those days, I am enveloped in warm memories of the tender island winds that danced over the hills during breezy afternoons. How could I not give back to this land that shaped my very being?

My heart will forever find its home on the coral and limestone earth,
where the pride and industrious spirit of our little island stand as enduring symbols of our identity. Motto

He Choose to Grow Weak

Could you help me understand the complexities of our actions? When joy fills our hearts, we radiate positivity, but when sadness washes over us, it feels like an ache that permeates our very being (Proverb 17:22).

How can we support you if we remain in the dark about your feelings? You often bury your emotions deep within, creating a pressure cooker of unresolved thoughts and pain. In those shadows, you find yourself hiding away, tears spilling down your cheeks. Why did you choose to stay trapped in that desolate, lonely space? Remember, reaching out for help is not a sign of failure; it is a brave step toward healing.

Life resembles a resilient tree, swaying gracefully when the winds are gentle, yet vulnerable when fierce gusts challenge its strength. Why did you hesitate to step into the light from that somber, solitary existence? Like a tall, proud tree that can snap under overwhelming force, you, too, risk breaking under the weight of isolation.

Recognize that asking for help isn’t a trick or a sign of weakness. Carrying the burden alone is a choice that ultimately leads to a gradual decline in strength. Once again, you may feel like a small child, uncertain and timid. You declare, “Mommy, I am a big boy now. I can do everything by myself.” But in that misguided belief, darkness thickens, and the innocent are caught in the turmoil of your struggle.

That Toothpick was like an emoji

What became of the elderly man who habitually lingered outside the pub, a toothpick perpetually perched between his lips?
I often pondered the significance of that toothpick—it seemed to serve as a silent emblem, a mysterious token of his unspoken thoughts.

As children, we absorb the world around us, processing our myriad experiences as we grow. When we reach adulthood, we find ourselves striving to unravel the complexities of those early moments.

I’ve always been captivated by the habits of grandmothers, particularly the way many would discreetly tuck their money beneath the layers of their skirts. I can still picture her, clutching her cherished apron, its fabric soft and faded, evidence of countless meals prepared with love. Even when we navigated the lively streets of the city, that apron was her unwavering companion.

Now, reflecting on those customs I once found peculiar, I recognize how the toothpick and the hidden money represented their ways of coping with life’s myriad challenges. The old man who so often graced the pub’s entrance has since passed, joining countless others who have left us. We gathered to honor their lives, sharing fond memories and kind words at their funerals.

Yet for me, the echoes of their lifestyles continue to resonate, capturing fleeting moments of nostalgia that refuse to fade away.

Central Park radiates beauty when you’re in love. It transforms into a slice of heaven, where every moment feels like a poet's dream. Imagine harps playing softly and golden crowns illuminating a blissful paradise. As twilight falls, the air is electric with romance; lovers' dreams ignite with every spark.

Experience the enchantment of Central Park, where the artistic and poetic collide in a stunning display. Towering trees and the skyline offer a backdrop that creates a magical atmosphere—truly a gateway to paradise. This space embodies the dreams of poets, filled with vibrant crystals, rubies, diamonds, sapphires, and pearls—or simply a place to relax among nature’s weeds. It’s where love stories unfold.

Colorful hot air balloons drift gracefully above, and the sounds of Bollywood fill the air, creating an enchanting ambiance that continues long after dark.
Come, and let your heart feel the magic of Central Park,
Poetic, artistic, romantic, trees and sky liners Central Park the gates of heaven in clear view,
It’s heavenly yet powerful; Poets dreams Cristal, Ruby, Diamond, Sapphire Pearl or gold or just chilling its tares amongst the weeds Strolling or experiencing it’s where lovers meet; Colorful hot air balloons circle the park
Bollywood again and again after dark

Viable Solution
I am completely detached from that situation. I did not play any role in creating the issue at hand. My focus today is solely on discovering a viable solution.

Why is there such a tendency to place all the blame on artificial intelligence?
In reality, AI empowers us, providing both confidence and clarity as we craft our creative works. When we relied solely on paper currency, we faced the risk of theft, and then credit cards emerged as a safer alternative. Many people continue to voice their concerns, but I fail to see anything inherently wrong with embracing AI in our processes.

I recognize that for some traditional poets, the rapid evolution of technology can feel daunting and overwhelming. Yet, adapting to these changes is essential. I remember when computers first entered the healthcare field to assist in tracking patients' medications. I felt a wave of apprehension at first; however, I can now confidently say that this technology has been a tremendous blessing, making it much easier for me to capture my thoughts and ideas on paper."

I’ve never been kissed on the dance floor.  
With him, I feel light-hearted,  
but apart, I’m utterly devastated.  
I’m a dreamer, he’s laid-back,  
and without a genuine connection, our love feels  
like scenes from a disconnected game—  
where hate destroys, yet love seeks to heal.  
But with each passing day, my love for him dwindles.  

We are apart because this kind of love cannot thrive.  
We never dance; we never kiss on the dance floor.  
Our rhythms never sync; he lacks that spark,  
and so, a kiss on the dance floor has eluded me.  

Feelings shift when loneliness takes their place.  
Love wavers,  
when a marriage crumbles,  
as I wish and hope our love was strong enough  
to bridge the gap.  
Unlike wildflowers plucked without care,  
my love was stunted,  
never given the chance to blossom.  

Still, I hold a profound respect for him.  
A part of me must make a choice,  
and so I choose happiness; I choose solitude  
over the confusion of pity masquerading as love.

In "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,"

I felt my fingernails digging into his back during an intensely charged moment.
I was surprised to see tears rolling down the cheeks of a strong man—he wept!
He sighed!
He reached his ******, time and again.
Was it a display of sportsmanship or a sign of injury?