Did I tell you that I am a cop and see so much? Did I tell you— I watch not only my parents, but my aunts, my uncles, my friends, my co-workers, standing silently, gracefully on a line where they receive loss after loss, as their parents fade like photographs left too long in the sun. Did I tell you that I see sickness creep in like an intrusive guest? Did I tell you— how strength becomes delicate, how youth slips through fingers like water, how minds once sharp as blades soften into “I’m sorry I forgot” of forgotten names? Did I tell you that I wonder— when did we forget? Forget the sacrifices sewn into the seams of the 1940s, the calloused hands of the 50s, the marching feet of the 60s, the disco hustles of the 70s, the “we are the world” of the 80s, the restless ambition of the 90s? Did I tell you that they were children once too? And you— you will be a parent too, clutching memories like we are lost in a squid game, holding thoughts, you once shouted from the fearless part of your journey, as your hair turns grey, as your speed slows to match someone else’s slow pace. Did I tell you that beauty fades? but wisdom grows roots? Roots that twist deep into centuries, roots that hold stories of ancestors who planted trees so we could breathe. Did I tell you— how youthful hands, once protective with a contagious energy, become craved voices of time, happy lines etched like rivers flowing toward the ocean of experience? Did I tell you that I see it all? Across every race, every culture, every age— the universal truth that time is undefeated. Did I tell you— how sad it is to watch children forget the weight their parents carried, the nights they worked while dreams slept, the sacrifices that built bridges so we could run faster, climb higher? Did I tell you that I am a cop and see so much? Did I tell you— I see the cycle, the turning of the wheel, the way we all become the elders we once ignored, the way we all hold on to the fearless boldness of youth as the world slows down, and we learn to walk at the pace of memory. Now drift away like smoke from an open flame Attempting to escape a natural transition As their youth escapes their grasp like wind through open hands Dissolving like morning mist under the rising sun They’re not ready to close their eyes They don’t want to miss a thing While we watch the twinkles in the skies evolve into youth Disregarding respect we had for time Trust the truth that youth runs from us like sand through an hourglass fades like deep ink on a page left in the rain Did I tell you that I am a cop and see so much, waiting for my time to be up? I am Dr. Poetry

Becoming me Becoming me begins with my journey through the universe How the planets-the solar system affects me Born on January 31rst 3:48 PM on a Wednesday The sun in Aquarius- moon in Capricorn-Mercury in Aquarius Venus in Capricorn -Mars in Sagittarius Yes, I am courageous Becoming me means I am a great humanitarian Dispenser of love, knowledge-the great Samaritan giving wealth of my heart and mind freely to all- sometimes for little reward sometimes for none at all becoming me means the pleasure remains mine imparting gems I feel have indeed provided a service Regardless how the houses were positioning Or the celestial bodies were aligned I was brought from the cosmos Created to communicate my gifts from my spirit For the benefit of society that I brought back to relive it Becoming me signifies I am a mind person Accused of being detached disinterested in matters more emotional and intimate becoming me sounds like “you’re so intelligent” Always thinking-having a real concern that society moves ever forward That it doesn’t stay stagnant but evolves Becoming me at the age of three displaying passion for social justice and fashion With bellbottoms and smelling mommy’s COCO CHANEL FRAGRANCES Becoming me, is as easy to be friendly Original-Intuitive-Yeah, broad minded Nonconformant I’m a little different-But I’m independent Freedom -love- and scientific Unusual but helpful Becoming me can also mean being impersonal And I am unpredictable- And I am tactless And I ‘m rebellious -unconventional- I could be very stubborn Yes rigid-radical- bohemian And I don’t mind being weird- eccentric Becoming me seeks intelligence in a man and work Which calls for inventiveness-investigations uplifting humanity- seeking knowledge To share with all types of societies- Independently or in group activities Becoming me means I prefer a customary mode of operation Helping others to help themselves knowing it is a long long road Becoming me looks like my feelings on friendship drive me to try To improve many all that I can guide-yet some don’t understand my ways reacting negatively towards me my inner me trying to create an enemy- out of me It’s just me Becoming me means I’m constantly surrounded by others One way or another Either I’m attending a social function or I’m seeking the collaboration of others That’s becoming me! I was a first responder at the age of 6, between Holding down my older brother as he’s overdosing And keeping my mother from being killed All while I’m singing ring around the Rosie Becoming me looks like being duct taped down to the ground Execution style with a nine-millimeter on my crown chakra “Becoming me “!!!! Is watching my life pass me by screaming out to the ethers Becoming me is surviving numerous illnesses -operations that killed so many Surviving cancer cells but not being able to have a baby Becoming me is always loving the hardest And getting fucked over by the weakest Yet becoming me continues to make me stronger and resilient Becoming me has me traveling all around the world Living the best and worse experiences with inspiration and creativity And yes, I love the color blue because becoming me is I hate the word authority but I love to be challenged To display a greater degree of confidence Exercising authority effectively with great magna-nimity Becoming me means thanking you for exiting my life thanking God for removing all lost souls that are not celebrating me, that are not meant for me as I keep evolving- continuing to become “me” I am Dr. Poetry And I love me-becoming me! I am Dr. Poetry

I married a man with hands that healed bodies but never held mine with desire. A doctor, the only son, the golden boy with a secret tucked behind a white coat smile. He said “I do” but he didn’t. Not to me. Not to my curves, not to my scent, not to the way I laughed too loud or cried too soft. He said yes to a cover story, a camouflage stitched from my vulnerability. I was his project. His proof. His permission slip to pass in a world that told him “Don’t be you.” And I? I was the woman who loved him with a heart wide open, who mistook silence for safety, who thought maybe if I was enough— enough woman, enough wife, enough warmth— he’d see me. But he never did. Because I was never the destination. I was the detour. The disguise. The soft place he could hide from the truth he couldn’t face. And I stayed. Longer than I should have. Because love makes you loyal even when it’s lonely. Because hope is a stubborn thing and shame wears a convincing mask. But one day, I stood in the mirror and saw myself. Not his wife. Not his shield. Not his excuse. Just me. A woman who deserved to be chosen, not used. Desired, not tolerated. Loved, not lied to. So I walked away not bitter— but brave. Not broken— but blooming. Because his lie is not my truth. And I will not shrink to fit into someone else’s silence. I am not a project. I am a masterpiece in progress. And I will never again apologize for being too much for someone who was never enough for me. Was I supposed to wear the pants and be his king? while he wore the dress to be my queen? But I wasn’t looking for a queen— I needed a man. And he wasn’t man enough for me. I am Dr. Poetry

I water myself down like coffee left too long in the pot, because the new generation can’t sip anything strong— they need it quick, sweet, and gone. An hour-long show? Forget it. They scroll past stories like skipping stones, never letting one sink deep enough to ripple thought. YouTube shorts—thirty seconds of dopamine— because sixty minutes feels like eternity to a mind trained to twitch at every notification. Albums? Dead. Why record a genius compilation of creativity when an EP will do? Three tracks, two minutes each— because who has time to listen, to reflect, to let lyrics marinate to soak in your inner being We’ve become a microwave society, press start, ding, consume— no seasoning, no simmer, just instant gratification served lukewarm. And writing? Don’t make me laugh. Why bleed ink when you can copy-paste? Recycle theories like plastic bottles, never cracking the seal of introspection. Depth suffers neglect, definitions shrink to fit captions, because thinking is heavy and we’re all on a diet of lightness. Emojis speak louder than words now— a yellow face with tears saves you from spelling “sad.” In person? Social skills on life support. Who are we kidding? We outsource our emotions to apps, let watches remind us to breathe because we forgot how to inhale without instruction. We’ve lost the art of sitting with silence, of wrestling with our own thoughts until they surrender into wisdom. Instead, we scroll, swipe, escape— relinquish the reins of our minds, to formulas, systems, frameworks, -algorithms that spoon-feed us distraction. We are devolving, shrinking our DNA’s Godlike composition by design pto think beyond the horizon. Our attention span? An ant’s eye— tiny, myopic, crawling across the screen while the universe waits, untouched, for us to look up. I am Dr. Poetry

There is a silence that doesn’t come from absence, but from presence without recognition. You are here — but not. Breathing — but gone. And I am mourning a mother who still has a pulse. Dementia is not just forgetting. It is the slow erosion of SKELETONS the collapse of memory’s cathedral, beam by sacred beam. And you, my already complicated mother, are now a stranger wearing your own face. You will never return to Borikén. Never again feel the Taino clay in Luquillo beneath your feet, the salt air-or the breeze through the mountains of Cayey that once braided itself into your laughter. There will be no more Christmases as we knew them — no coquito, pasteles you made no more guayaba con queso pastelillos, no stories told twice because you loved the sound of your own remembering. Now, there is only the reverberation of what once was. You fight us. You curse. You refuse to bathe, as if water itself were betrayal. And I try to remind myself — this is not you. This is the disease. But some days, I can’t tell the difference. Some days, I feel like I’ve already buried you a hundred times in the space between your eyes. You were not a perfect mother. And I — I was not a perfect daughter. But I forgive you. For the sharp words, the absences, the wounds we never named. And I hope, in whatever corner of your mind still holds light, you forgive me too. For the slammed doors. For the silence. For not always knowing how to love you when you were still whole. My sisters and I — we tried to be your everything. Caretakers. Translators of confusion. Witnesses to your unraveling. We held your body when your mind let go. We carried your legacy even when it cut our hands. And still — we appreciate you. Your sacrifices. Your strength. The way you survived even when softness was never offered to you. There is a grief that lives in the liminal — not death, but the slow undoing of life. And I live there now. In the space between who you were and who you’ve become. But I will stay. Because love, real love, does not require perfection. Only presence. So, when the time comes for you to leave this world, know this: You will not go empty. You will go full — of stories, of struggle, of daughters who tried. And even in your fading, you remain my mother. And I — I remain your child. I am Dr. Poetry

“Winged Comrade" You did not circle overhead like a question mark carved into the sky— you landed. Heavy with unsaid things, ink-feathered, as if night itself had learned how to perch. Before I could recognize my own reflection, before mirrors told their half-truths, you were already there— a feathered silhouette stitched into the corner of every unraveling. Not watching. No… accounting, in Raven formality. You are not companion in the way they mean it. Not slight, nor ornamental. You are ledger and echo— the archivist of dawning. Where others bring light like a blade to sever shadow, you arrive carrying the shadow whole— unashamedly so — placing it gently at my feet like an offering of shiny things that refuses any & all disguises. Your claws do not wound— they anchor. A gravity so keen even the body stops arguing with it. And when I break — when identity splinters into glass and every shard insists it is the original— you do not gather me. You tilt your head. As if to say: “Let it scatter. Truth is not afraid of its own debris.” You speak in shifts— in the swift recalibration of air, in the hush of stillness that bends the moment just enough to reveal its hidden calculations. No commandments. Only the slow correction of the inner compass. Black-winged mathematician of the unseen, you measure not distance— but deviation. Each step I take away from myself etched somewhere beneath your feathers, somewhere beyond forgiveness and before consequence. So I walk differently now. Not guided— but accompanied by awareness. Stay near. Not as symbol, not as myth binded into borrowed meaning— but as you are: A living margin note scribbled in the book of my expansion— dark, precise, impossible to ignore. And if I forget— if I soften into illusion or crown illusion as truth— please press deeper. Let your presence become pressure, become interruption, become the uninvited knowing that cracks the performance open, brilliantly so. Because I did not call you here to make me comfortable. I called you to make me accurate. To perch at the edge of every self-deception until pretense collapses under its own weight. And when the world mistakes spectacle for truth— let us remain unimpressed. © 2026 Cosmik Oracle (Kandace Louise), All rights reserved.

I do not see with eyes alone. My third eye opens where form has not yet spoken... Visions arriving as living signal, unfolding within the field before it fully meets the world. My crown Aritu, a white lotus in bloom - thousands of petals receiving what is already known before it encircles, thus taking shape in the language of matter. I feel everything, Innerstanding each blossoming insight. Through the heart center, it settles as truth— never questioned, certainly not forced, simply recognized. I am the SEER through which the unseen reveals itself accordingly. I SEE. Why yes, vsions through the inner lens— A symphony of revelations. 𓋹 Cosmik Oracle 𓋹

The Sphinx does not blink, as legitimacy does not flinch. It has watched empires inhale themselves and exhale into dust. Watched crowns rust. Watched the ancient emanations of the Divine renamed, and wisdom buried under performance and turbulence. The Sphinx does not blink - because it does not need to react to what is perishable. It waits. Lion-bodied Will anchored to stone, human mind carved into stillness. No sermon. No spectacle. Only presence so keen it rearranges the energetic threads of time. It asks nothing, yet demands everything. Dare to know, but not the facts you collect like trophies. Know thyself that watches itself. Know the pattern beneath your reactions. Know the repetition of pretensive decisions, The cloaked lies you hold tight because it keeps you comfortable. Knowledge without honesty is just décor, thirsty illusions. Dare to will, but not from hunger or wounded pride. Will from alignment. From the place where desire bows to the fruitful beams of honesty. From the place where intention is disciplined enough to wait until it’s clean. Will is not force. It is focus that does not sever. Dare to act, because wisdom that stays seated rots. Action is the altar where knowing and will are tested by reality. Not loud action. Not rushed action. Precision finetuned. Consistent. Unromantic. Embodied. And then, the most mis-innerstood, Dare to be silent. Because power leaks through loose tongues. Because not everything sacred is meant for an audience. Because incubation is a language the impatient never learn. Silence is not absence, it is mastery Silence is self-regulation. Silence means guarding sanctified knowledge from misuse, letting results speak louder than any declaration, allowing gestation before revelation. Silence is indeed, dedication. The Sphinx teaches – Not everything revealed is ripened. Silence protects the inner flames, while they dance freely, untamed. The Sphinx does not blink when you announce your awakening. It does not blink when you perform your knowing. It does not blink when you confuse visibility with initiation. It blinks, only when the body matches the word. When the walk answers the talk. When the inner temple is finally balanced. Stand before it long enough and you will realize— there was never a riddle. Only a mirror. And the question was never “Can you enter?” It has always been: “Can you hold what you claim to seek?” The Sphinx does not blink. It waits for coherence. ~ Cosmik Oracle

"Know thyself, and you shall know the cosmos.” This is not metaphor. This is composition. Because the human is not separate from the universe— the human is the microcosm, and the universe is the macrocosm, each mirroring the other in law, in rhythm, in design. To know yourself is not self-obsession. It is cosmic literacy. Your breath follows stellar rhythm. Your nervous system carries planetary knowledge. Your thoughts move in waves— just like light, just like time, just like the constellations themselves. When the ancients spoke this teaching, they were not speaking lightly — they were speaking absolutely. They innerstood that the same laws governing galaxies govern the psyche. That the same forces shaping worlds shape will, desire, fear, and unfolding. There is no separation. Only scale. And this is why the Sphinx stands as it does— human head, lion body, unmoving gaze— because mastery begins inward before it is ever expressed outward. The Sphinx does not ask you what you believe. It asks what you embody. Do you know yourself well enough to recognize truth when it arrives? Do you govern your will or is it governed for you? Can you act without fragmentation? Can you hold silence without leaking power within? These are not riddles. They are requirements. We enter the teachings of the Sphinx not as myth, not as symbol, but as living law. Because when the inner world is ordered, when the inner world is balanced, the cosmos answer - not in words, but in voluminous frequency, vibrational receptivity, thus the expansion of Realizations in regards to the TRUTHS that BE. And the Sphinx… does not blink. - Cosmik Oracle

Seduce my mind —not with imitation, but with the design of your thoughts, the way your words arrange themselves like constellations I’ve somehow studied before. Touch the unseen places - where curiosity lives, where questions breathe, where silence is not empty but listening. Because my body… she is honest. She responds to resonance, not display. She knows the difference between hunger and true attunement. So if she leans toward you, Innerstand - it was never about the surface. It was the way you spoke and something ancient in me sat up, extremely attentive. Find my soul… —not by searching, but by recognition. That's right, recognize me in the spaces between words, in the pauses that feel like home, in the gaze that does not take - but see the sanctuary I offer. And if you reach that place - that quiet, sacred center where I do not divide myself… Then there is no question of possession. I am not something you have. I am something you meet - and in that meeting, we become a continuity without end. © 2026 Cosmik Oracle, All rights reserved.

Your quixotic tendencies had me questioning your authenticity. The way you wrapped grand gestures in the fabric of shallow chivalry— speaking of honor with an apprehensive voice that could not steady itself long enough to reflect truth. Your overly chivalrous actions did not blend with your constant attacks on imaginary enemies— phantom threats born from division inside your own unhealed precipice. You swung swords at ghosts, conjured wars from silence, and bled from self-inflicted wounds while blaming the world for the cut. Overly delusional fragments of twisted misconceptions— the stories you told yourself became the prison walls you worshiped. Every suspicion a mirror, every accusation a confession, every doubt a reflection of those parts of you that you refused to face. Fighting unwinnable battles with your ego, as if dominance could substitute for intimacy— as if control could mimic connection. You armored yourself against the very love you claimed to want, mistaking vigilance for valor and paranoia for protection. This was the actuality: You could not hold what you demanded. You mistook chaos for passion, conflict for depth, and your own fear for revelations. And I— I had to step back from the battlefield you created, lay my sword down at my feet, and choose peace over illusion. For I will not shrink myself to fit inside your war. I leave you to fight the enemies you alone have summoned— may you one day realize - THEY WERE NEVER ME. © 2025 Cosmik Oracle, All rights reserved.

Three knocks upon the temple door. Three flames rising in the sanctuary of breath. Three voices whispering through seeds of creation. 3… 3… 3… The multiverse does not repeat itself without reason. It is calling the poet to speak — and that poet is me. Higher Self connection. Channeling expression. Energetic grounding — roots deep. Mind awakened. Spirit listening. Body reconnecting. The triad of my being standing in alignment with the rhythm of what is meant. Celestial cadence echoing through the chambers of consciousness. An etheric signal resonating through the lattice of existence. Threefold illumination — thought, breath, and spirit converging in radiant coherence. A convergence of knowing. A reflection that the voice within was never meant to remain silent. For when the universe speaks in threes it is not coincidence — it is invitation. An emergence to rise in full expression and articulate the unseen. To give language to what moves between dimensions of thought and intuition. And so I answer. Not timidly. But vividly. With the resonance of a soul rediscovering why she came here. For the code of three is the pattern of creation — and when three becomes threefold it's sum returns to nine. Completion. Fulfillment. The circle of knowing made whole. Three… Three… Three… A signal. A summons. A remembrance. That the scribe, the voice, the vessel — is the transmission. And tonight the multiverse spoke in threes. I listened. And tonight the universe spoke in threes — and the poet became the voice. That poet is Me 33 + 3 or 3+33 or 3+3+3 equaling a mathematical equation where numerology is the 9th channel, Delivering the alignment, Of what is meant... - Cosmik Oracle

She carries her ancestors in her spine— each vertebra a memory, ALL 33... calculating blueprints of ages prior, each breath a continuation of what transpired. Elevation and Transfiguration. She was never just a woman. She is a living archive, She is liberation, a sacred vessel of starlight. Her frequency is bloodline prophecy, a sacred remembering in motion. She is a lineage— ancient and future meeting within her now. Walking, remembering, RE-Awakening. She is temple, she is threshold, she is the repertoire of ancient tongues still vibrating through every layer of growth. She is Sun Carrier, She is ME. - Cosmik Oracle

In Poetry, I say… Deep down in the depths of my soul I feel a sudden emptiness that I can no longer control being physically gone away or even physically alive on earth. There’s a part of me that knows you have to go, but a big part of me wants you to stay fighting combing with cognitive dissonance questioning my thoughts am I going crazy I just wanna know where I am how I stand breathe, think and feel when sometimes I question if reality is even real, you’re absence, makes the heart grow fonder, but in ways that I never thought my mind would go and wander… Missing you

The pain I held within finally has a resting place…no pain and heartache from the negative energy displaced. Growing into the version of myself at peace moving with dignity and grace

Perfection Have you ever had that awkward pause when speaking or meeting someone for the first time¿ Let me try to explain myself and how I can best define what that is for me. Thinking out loud as I break these thoughts and this poem down in the moment. What is it? Souls naturally speak through gateways that either shine light or are momentarily filled with darkness. Testing the fruit of the spirit isn’t always verbal. Discernment doesn’t always have to involve confrontation. In this scenario, I’m making sure the spirit is just as clean and nourished just as much as that beautiful woman is presented in the physical. You catch me staring. I’m not frozen or Indecisive on whether to approach. Rather defying the concept of relativity in this public space and divine time. Where eye contact feels familiar like lifetimes. Common noise goes quiet as if I stepped out of this universe. Your eyes, They inhabit eternity. Appreciating what is not seen. Perfection. Without a single word spoken, rather with two souls that apperceive. You pause, Confused and used to encountering connections from people that see you. Mark you as an ex at the spot pursued as if you were just temporal treasure. I don’t see you. We may or may speak to each other after this moment in time. We may or may not cross paths again. If we don’t, just remember the day that your light and your soul greeted me in silence with the loudest definition of perfection. Def Poetry

There was a time when this letter lived in my throat— unspokenly heavy, unrelentingly burning. I rewrote it in my mind a hundred different ways, thinking if I could just find the right sentence, the right tone, the right wound to point at— something would finally make sense. I wanted you to hear me. To see what it cost. To admit what it broke. But truthfully— what I wanted was for the ache to stop echoing. And then one day I realized I wasn’t writing to you anymore. I was writing to the part of me that reflected too long, that asked for less way more than it ever deserved, that confused longing with loyalty. The silence didn’t answer me— but it clarified me. I don’t write this now because I need closure. I write it because I have it. There is no hesitation in this ink. No bargaining between the lines. No secret hope folded in the margins. Only innerstanding. Only gratitude for what was revealed. Because now I see it clearly— You were never meant to stay, you were only meant to open the way. Warmest Regards, Cosmik Oracle

Come sit beside me. First, no touching. Just close enough that our breathing begins to negotiate. You inhale— I answer. Slow. Measured. Like two elements testing compatibility, Enticingly so. You are earth and flame. Solid Temple. Warm restraint. I am water and ether. Curve and current. Summoned. When your skin brushes mine it feels electric — Your hand drifts upward, not greedy— only guided. And when your thumb grazes the inside of my wrist — my pulse elevates. You do not grip. You circle first. You do not claim. You invite. And I— I lean into that invitation as a good girl should..... Ah ha, there's the grip I crave. My breath spills against your collarbone. Your exhale deepens. We are not rushing toward climax. We are distilling something deep. Turning breath into organic nectar. Turning stillness into spark. You anchor your forehead to mine and the world narrows. I feel your restraint— and it makes me bolder. Because the divine feminine within grows in presence of strength that does not shake. When your lips finally find my shoulder— not urgent— deeply certain— your breath feels like prophecy whispered in heat. I close my eyes. Not to escape. To ascend. Into that place where touch becomes language and language dissolves into rhythm. This is sensual alchemy. Your steadiness meeting my surrender. My softness awakening your fire. And together— we turn breath into gold. - Cosmik Oracle

Sister of my energy, soul-sister of my soul, the moon cradles you tonight. You step barefoot into the silver path, leaving footprints in the river of stars. The earth sighs heavy, As the wind carries your name. And my heart beats the memory of your laugh into the endless sky of purple dusk — magnifying your essence. May the moon be your lantern. May the ancestors take your hand. May you cross back to our true home of peace where joy does not fade, Rather, ILLUMINATES! I will keep you in the depths of my heart, in the light behind my eyes, in the songs I still sing to the night. Dancing in honor of you, shining bright, reflecting blissful memories, foot-loose and free, soul soaring in rhythm. I love you, Sis*Star — eternally so. Rest in Power. Soar high. Forever walking in light. - Cosmik Oracle

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How do I remove years of traumas buried beneath the roots of my family tree? How do I release my mother’s temper mental moody yet lack of trust in men that marinates 50% within the seeds cultivated inside my head but instead I have been pushing it down deep below giving it a secure space beneath the traumas buried beneath the roots of my family tree? How? Do I get him to believe that I am so in love with him regardless of all the uncertainties I see and breathe not giving a fuck about how pendajish I be when I know our connectivity is authentically between you and me fuck what others see, when I know it’s about you and it’s about me battling the premature tendencies of showing each other how deep the years of traumas buried beneath the roots of our own fears of abandonment and distrust yet there is a reason why my apologies need fixing, Oh, they need fixing, see I am willing to not only talk about taking accountability and looking within me and beyond reasons. Why? Do I feel the need to point out the wrong in me and highlight the right in you, I am in a state of loving and sometimes hating me because I need to remove the traumas buried beneath the roots of my delicate family tree. Because I am sensitive, I need you to know that I am not interested in the blame game I’m interested in working out these indifferences innerstanding that you and I need to stay in a sane lane and not complain about how we react to each other’s amplified pain from all the scars covered in I don’t need to be validated nor I am not that kind of emotional woman eradicated you know depicted with the roots exposed, we are more than I love you but I can’t stand you knowing damn well we’re connected souls Even if you fall short to see the only truth is that my mother’s temper mental moody yet lack of trust in men that marinates 50% with the seeds cultivated inside my head but instead I have been pushing it down deep below giving it a secure space beneath the traumas buried beneath the roots of my family tree Although my sudden development of strength instilled by my ancestors remind me of the African Proverb with in, that states, “When the roots are deep there is no reason to fear the wind”, I am not conceited, Ali said he was convinced and I’m convinced that all that trauma buried is creeping into my nerves you know neuroglia what the Doctors refer to Fibromyaglia another teoria stating that my body needs to release my mother’s temper mental moody mentality yet lack of trust in men that marinates 50%within the seeds cultivated inside my head but instead I have been pushing it down deep below giving it a secure space beneath the traumas buried now being released beneath the roots of my family tree. Please don’t judge me, it took a lot of bravery in me just to acknowledge to accept that my love for you is deeper than the traumas buried beneath the roots of my family tree so I need you to continue being the God within you that I am connected to as you hold me while I hold you all the while I am facing, fighting and removing demons I didn’t summoned yet came for me. I am releasing the generational curses out into the sea as I was the sacrifice no womb to carry your seed yet innerstand this bey b, I know I owe myself an apology for entertaining spaces I knew I wasn’t respected, wanted and appreciated, loved or valued, you are the force that I mishandled, my fucked-up ways of communicating, and sleeping on the protection of our peace, I am done talking about taking accountability since we are moving forward looking ahead My traumas have been worn like a Dolce Gabana collection in the fall see our souls were subpoenaed by the universe to continue our journey so excuse me if I’m getting a little horny at odd times of the day, but bey, I need you to trust the wait, a period of waiting, the weight, the heaviness of you my person, the thing we call honorable love, you know, that thing. I’m talking about the connection that we have added importance above many things, like the value. I value you, I honor you, and I am done talking about it! Cause what if one of us died tonight from a brain aneurism while we’re caught up in all the bullshit, baby fuck all that shit. I’ve done all the shoveling, cutting and removal of years of traumas buried beneath the roots of my family tree, I’m done talking. We are not lost, we’re just in a growth process, we are not broken, we are interrupted perhaps a quite uncomfortable phase of our lives where our old wounds are finally diminishing as we honor each other’s lives, while we continue being soulfully connected, our sacred love is hauntingly familiar we are one, yet it is within ourselves that God must be realized. I am Dr. Poetry

Did I tell you that I am a cop and see so much? Did I tell you— I watch not only my parents, but my aunts, my uncles, my friends, my co-workers, standing silently, gracefully on a line where they receive loss after loss, as their parents fade like photographs left too long in the sun. Did I tell you that I see sickness creep in like an intrusive guest? Did I tell you— how strength becomes delicate, how youth slips through fingers like water, how minds once sharp as blades soften into “I’m sorry I forgot” of forgotten names? Did I tell you that I wonder— when did we forget? Forget the sacrifices sewn into the seams of the 1940s, the calloused hands of the 50s, the marching feet of the 60s, the disco hustles of the 70s, the “we are the world” of the 80s, the restless ambition of the 90s? Did I tell you that they were children once too? And you— you will be a parent too, clutching memories like we are lost in a squid game, holding thoughts, you once shouted from the fearless part of your journey, as your hair turns grey, as your speed slows to match someone else’s slow pace. Did I tell you that beauty fades? but wisdom grows roots? Roots that twist deep into centuries, roots that hold stories of ancestors who planted trees so we could breathe. Did I tell you— how youthful hands, once protective with a contagious energy, become craved voices of time, happy lines etched like rivers flowing toward the ocean of experience? Did I tell you that I see it all? Across every race, every culture, every age— the universal truth that time is undefeated. Did I tell you— how sad it is to watch children forget the weight their parents carried, the nights they worked while dreams slept, the sacrifices that built bridges so we could run faster, climb higher? Did I tell you that I am a cop and see so much? Did I tell you— I see the cycle, the turning of the wheel, the way we all become the elders we once ignored, the way we all hold on to the fearless boldness of youth as the world slows down, and we learn to walk at the pace of memory. Now drift away like smoke from an open flame Attempting to escape a natural transition As their youth escapes their grasp like wind through open hands Dissolving like morning mist under the rising sun They’re not ready to close their eyes They don’t want to miss a thing While we watch the twinkles in the skies evolve into youth Disregarding respect we had for time Trust the truth that youth runs from us like sand through an hourglass fades like deep ink on a page left in the rain Did I tell you that I am a cop and see so much, waiting for my time to be up? I am Dr. Poetry

We live in a world that worships the “Don’t push me cause I’m close to the edge” Where extremes are crowned kings and queens, and nuances are exiled like rhetoric heretics. Balance? Balance is too quiet to trend. Too complex to go viral. Too human to be binary. We speak of emotions like they’re enemies. Told to “man up” or “calm down,” as if feeling deeply is a flaw: repugnant as if the heart must be either fortress or flood. But what if strength is not the absence of tears, but the courage to hold them without drowning? We debate identity like it’s a courtroom drama. Sexuality dissected under fluorescent lights, as if love must be labeled, boxed, and filed alphabetically. But identity is not a thesis to be defended— it’s a poem still being written. It’s the balance between knowing and becoming. And gender— oh, gender. We’ve turned it into a battlefield. Masculinity must be steel, femininity must be silk. But what of the man who protects with gentleness? What of the woman who nurtures with fire? We forget: the lioness hunts. The stallion watches the herd. Nature never asked permission to blur the lines. But the media— the media scripts the spectacle. It doesn’t seek truth, it seeks traction. It doesn’t ask for balance, it demands a villain. Toxic masculinity becomes the headline, but never the healing. We see the abuser, but not the boy taught to bury his softness within layers of denial— of internal rejection of one’s own softness. We shame the aggression, but never question the culture that equates vulnerability with weakness. And now, toxic femininity enters the frame— a counter-narrative, but still a caricature. The manipulative, the vain, the entitled— flattened into tropes for algorithms to feast on. But where is the space to ask: What wounds taught her to weaponize her worth? What systems taught her that power must come at someone else’s expense? The media doesn’t want balance. It wants spectacle. It wants the war, not the peace talks. It wants the scream, not the dialogue. It wants the binary— because balance doesn’t sell. We say a woman must choose: nurturer or leader. But why not both? Why not the hand that rocks the cradle also write policy, build empires, rewrite the code? We say a man must be protector— but never protected. That he must shield others, but never ask for shelter. But what if protection is not domination, but presence? Not fists, but open arms? We are addicted to division- To binaries- To the myth that balance is weakness. But balance is not indecision— it is discernment. It is the art of holding paradox without needing to resolve it. So, I ask: What are we so afraid of? That if we let go of the extremes, we might meet ourselves in the middle? That if we stop shouting, we might hear the quiet truth? Balance is not the enemy. It is the bridge. Between emotion and reason. Between identity and expression. Between the masculine and the feminine that live in all of us. So, let us not fear the center. Let us not mock the middle. Let us learn to live in the tension— and call it wholeness. I am Dr. Poetry

Ma’at is always near — in every breath of balance, in every word of truth, in every timeless scroll we open with reverence. She moves through the spaces between thought, entwining harmony where discord once resided. She is the feather on my tongue, the symmetry in my craft, the flow of Truth - guiding every project, every written artistry. When I write, I feel her at my shoulder — weighing intention, whispering equilibrium into the ink, upon this very page. Her scales rest upon my spirit, reminding me to weigh each action in the light of integrity… (there’s that word again) to honor cause and effect as cosmic choreography, where even stillness is a step in divine rhythm. In the collaboration of creation, I hear her whisper: Align. And so I do — with pen, pulsation, & purpose. Through Ma’at, my essence divulges in gratitude and magnificent foresight. For truth is the architecture of the cosmos, and balance is the bridge between all worlds. © 2025 Cosmik Oracle (Kandace Louise) 🪶✨🌊💫🪬

Long before the world spoke his name, a Wanderer crossed the winter veil. He was the Hooded One— the Old Father of Yule— a shaman-king drifting between worlds, carrying memory through snow. Children left offerings for his sacred steed, and in return he left blessings of abundance. They knew him as Odin, the All-Seer who journeyed through the coldest night with wisdom hidden beneath his cloak. Centuries later, his mantle passed into the hands of a Christian saint— Nicholas, the quiet giver, the protector of children, the secret bringer of gold for those the world had forgotten. Father Christmas inherited the cheer, the hearth-fire, the green-robed spirit of winter. And slowly, these three streams of magic— pagan, Christian, ancestral - intertwined into one being. He is a syncretic creation made from ancient winter rites, generosity, mythic wisdom, and ancestral memory. Ah ha, Clement Clarke Moore’s poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas” rings in my ear along with 1930’s visuals, illustrations solidifying America’s new image - Coca-Cola can in hand, a nice round belly under his bright new red suit - “Jolly ol’ Saint Nicolas, lean your ear this way…..” Santa Claus - truly the evergreen Spirit of Yule. Not demon. Not adversary. He is the Guardian of the Long Night: a symbol of generosity, the embodiment of returning light…. a reminder that kindness is its own form of sacred power. © 2025 Cosmik Oracle (Kandace Louise)
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The Matrix of My Mind In the labyrinth of thoughts, I wander and roam A maze of neurons, where ideas are my home The matrix of my mind, a complex web I weave A tapestry of memories, where experiences breathe Like Chicago's grid, my thoughts intersect and align A fusion of logic and intuition, where insights shine The city's energy pulses, a rhythm in my soul A beat that echoes, making my heart whole In this inner realm, I find my way Through the twists and turns, of each passing day A world of possibilities, where dreams take flight A universe of thought, where my spirit ignites The matrix shifts, as perceptions change A kaleidoscope of views, rearranging the range Of emotions and thoughts, a constant flux and flow A dance of synapses, as my mind does grow In this matrix, I'm free to explore The depths of my heart, the heights of my core A world within, where my true self resides The matrix of my mind, where my essence abides Through the filters of experience, I view the world A lens of love, of joy, of heartache and hurt Each moment adds a layer, to the lens I see A perspective shaped, by what I've been through, wild and free In the silence, I hear whispers low A gentle guidance, that only my soul knows A nudge to trust, to let go of fear A reminder that I'm stronger than I appear As I navigate life, the matrix evolves A dynamic system, where thoughts and emotions resolve A constant adaptation, to the ebbs and flows A growth that's happening, as my spirit grows Like the city's skyline, my mind's a view Ever-changing, with perspectives anew A fusion of shadows, and lights that play A reflection of me, in every single way In the stillness, I find my center too A place of calm, where my heart is true A refuge from the noise, a peaceful nest The matrix of my mind, where I find my rest

"Beautifully Broken I've been shattered, like a mirror on the floor Reflecting all my flaws, and the scars that I've stored But in the pieces of my heart, I've found a work of art A masterpiece of imperfection, a beauty that's been torn apart I'm beautifully broken, like a vase that's been repaired I'm pieced together, with scars that show I've been there I'm a mosaic of moments, a collage of my past I'm beautifully broken, and I'm finally free at last I've been weathered, like a stormy sea Tossed and turned, by the waves of destiny But in the depths of my soul, I've found a pearl of great price A treasure that's been hidden, beneath the surface of my compromise I'm beautifully broken, like a vase that's been repaired I'm pieced together, with scars that show I've been there I'm a mosaic of moments, a collage of my past I'm beautifully broken, and I'm finally free at last I'm not the same, I've been remade I'm a new creation, with a heart that's not afraid To show its scars, to tell its tale I'm beautifully broken, and I'm no longer frail I'm beautifully broken, like a vase that's been repaired I'm pieced together, with scars that show I've been there I'm a mosaic of moments, a collage of my past I'm beautifully broken, and I'm finally free at last I'm beautifully broken, and I'm okay I'm a work of art, in a world that's gone astray I'm a reminder, that it's okay to be broken Because in the brokenness, we find a beauty that's unspoken.

Dear Me In the mirror's gaze, I see you stare A reflection of life, with all its laughter and care The lines on my face, the scars I've earned A map of my journey, where love and joy have learned In Chicago's streets, where our story's told A tale of resilience, where heart and soul unfold From Wene's screen to the city's vibrant night A life of moments, where love shines bright Dear me, you've lived, you've loved, you've grown Through triumphs and trials, your spirit's shown A heart that's strong, a soul that's free A life of purpose, where love is the key So here's to you, dear me, with all your flaws and might A journey of discovery, where love is the light May your path be guided, through life's ebb and flow And may your heart remain, forever young and aglow.

Second Test of this Wonderful App.. Is it All working Yet? Or Am i just Being a Sap? Yes, I can Upload a Written Poem!! Yea!! Fun!! But am unable to See it in Full After the Upload is Done! Also cannot Edit The Uploaded Work .. (And just for the sake of the Rhyme..)… I Also Cannot View The Uploads of Any Other “Jerk” ! 😂😂😂 M.

A single raindrop landed on my cheek as if it knew I needed a moment to pause. In its tiny weight, I heard something familiar— a voice that sounded as if my own, when I'm honest with Self. “I’ve traveled a long way,” it seemed to say, “from cloud to sky to here— and you, you are falling into place, my dear. Everything returns. Everything begins again.” I closed my eyes, letting that truth soak within, and for a moment it felt like the universe had chosen the simplest way to remind myself of who I AM. In its shiver against my face, I felt the cosmos confess that even the smallest drop carries the magnitude of much needed insight. Its voice rippled through my 5th chakra: “I carry the hymns of hidden paths, the euphony of creation before it learned to speak. Every fall is a mystical deliverance, every landing a doorway.” And as it vanished into my skin, I felt the universe rearrange — a blissful reminder that even the smallest drop is a messenger of infinity. ~ CosmiK Oracle

Test Test Test … What Mess ?!! 🙂😂🙂 If You Can See This Test, Please Let Me Know… Or Is That Feature Also Not Available Yet? 🙂🙂🙂 M.

Don’t be afraid of simply being Express Yourself its a entry point to truly divine healing Emotional overflow highs and lows and conditions of overgrowth beginning to rise to the occasion its a celebration Don’t hide express yourself