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What Is My Conflict In This Story? ?

Please tell me the conflict, criticism would be nice too- I wrote it:
You’ve Got History In You
Elizabeth padded along the dirt path, one white gloved hand gripping a thin bouquet of freshly picked daisies, the other tugging at a worn brown leather hat. Her skirt brushed over the stone path and the white ribbon on her hat tugged at the night wind. Her blond curly hair rustled around her face. Finally she stopped and peered into the large, intricate iron gate. It was large, gray, with bars, like a prison, and small dark flowers and leafy, thin vines. She shoved open the gate reluctantly, and wiping her dirty glove against her coat, stepped into the eerie graveyard.
She had never been here before. As she walked along the dimly lit path, littered by tombstones and shrouded with dark flowers, almost like the ones of the gate, she could swear she felt the hat rustle in her hands. Ignoring the sensation, she gazed around.
Elizabeth felt chills as she looked around nervously. The graveyard seemed to be deserted, and even though she was almost twenty five years old, she still found it hard not to glance over her back every few seconds. She was interested in her grandfather, though. History intrigued her, especially her own family history.
“Harvey P. Jamesson…” she murmured demurely, running her fingers over the soft material. The beaten-up, soft hat was the sole relic of her grandfather. She had heard so much about him. She then continued her hunt for her grandfather’s tombstone, blue eyes darting back and forth.
From out of the blue, the hat pulled itself out of her iron grip and began to float in front of her. Her eyes widened as the hat soared up in the air and spun around. Instinctively she knew that she was meant to follow it. The haggard hat emitted a soft, magical glow˗ the happiest in the graveyard˗ and shot through the foggy air. Elizabeth had to run to keep up with its hurried pace, tripping on her heavy skirt on the way. She chased after it, wondering where on earth it was going.
It led her through the graveyard. They passed weeping willow trees, sitting above polished marble. She sprinted past a crying couple, far in the distance, mourning a lost friend. The hat zoomed over buried fiancées, dead mothers, and murder victims, not stopping once.
When she was almost out of breath, the hat paused. It rose above a gray, half-oval shaped rock rising out of the land with something engraved into it. Upon closer inspection Elizabeth found that the rock read:
Here lies Harvey Peter Jamesson
“Do not forget your country.”
1837-1865
Upon gazing at the quote on the tombstone, Elizabeth began to weep softly, filled with happiness and sadness. “Sixty five years, it’s been, sixty five years…”
The hat hovered down into her open arms. She sat on her knees in front of the brown earth that covered the corpse. Placing the white daises gingerly on the dirt, she dusted off the hat and stared at it.
It vibrated, almost happily, as if it knew she was thrilled to be here.
She placed the hat atop the daisies, bowing her head in respect. Elizabeth rose and turned to leave when she heard the ground beneath her quake. She shrieked, covering her mouth with her gloves so that the peace would not be disturbed, and grasped onto the tree that towered above the stones for protection. The bark irritated her skin, but she did not care. The tremors ended, leaving a rattled Elizabeth grasping onto the tree.
“Hello?” asked a deep voice, seemingly rising from the earth.
“H-h-ello? Is anyone th-th-there?” she stuttered nervously.
“By Jove! Is it you, Nancy?” asked the voice.
“Nancy is my grandmother… my name is Elizabeth,” she ventured uncertainly, gazing around for the stranger who had spoken.
“What’s your last name, dear?”
“Turner. I… I came to see my great-grandfather’s grave.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. Sit down… yes, right there, in front of my grave.”
This must be some kind of trick. Most likely someone is hiding behind that tree, ready to jump out and scare me! No one talks to people from the dead.
“This is no trick, Elizabeth. I am your grandfather. I can tell by your voice. You sound exactly like my wife, your grandmother, I think you said it she was. I can see you’re the spitting image of her.”
This was news to Elizabeth. “How can you see me when I can’t see you?”
“It’s the hat. It’s a very, very special hat.”
Elizabeth laughed.
“grandfather…”
“Call me Peter.”
“Peter, then… how did you die, exactly?”
Peter told her the story of his heroic and tragic life. He had been born in England to a noble, and lived his teenage years there.
“It was nice, but I felt too pressured.”
He disgraced his family by running off to America to escape them. Once he had arrived, he found Nancy, and they married and had her mother.
“She was the most beautiful woman, Elizabeth. I wish you could have met her too.”
He fought in the war against Britain, stating it was ha

Please Help Me Title This Poem That I Wrote. And Tell Me What You Think Of It.?

If I am tempted to die before I wake, I pray to my Lord that my soul won’t break./
Shaking the fear of snakes who decided to stay up late to, try my faith./
“Does he have what it takes?”/
Mediocre or great?/
And time won’t wait./
Besides my side isn’t on time and I know time isn’t on my side./
So when you stare in the eyes of I, you’ll find a driven king who refuse to die./
Should you ask why? Check out my past:/
I see past the false subliminal and advertisements./
A wise man told me to search for myself behind my eye lids./
Yet I started crying, but then I remember that my uncle told me that men don’t cry./
Subsequently my aunt told me that men do lie./
So I lied on my pillow with my eyes close.
Until the sun-light rose and shined on my face. And I saw me with my back against a willow tree./
I called my name but I started running from me./
I ran after until I found a imitation/
who discourage me from chasing but little did the counterfeit know that I’m motivated by the doubt of my critics./
So i ran further
until i hear the little boy who stuttered.
And his peers deserted him so he started searching for his mother./
But his mother was searching for a man to love her.
And that man was looking for a one night stand undercover./
So i ran more
until i found a door , room 13. I was about to intrude but I saw a teenager coming out the room./
Black eyed, bloody nose, jeans with grass stains, and you can see the white meat in his knuckles./
He said that he was a victim of gang violence but he just wanted to get food from the store so that him and his sister could eat./
He said “Three days a week i had to walk this street. It was like the gangsters heard my stomach growling so they served up beef.
and one dude had heat and he threaten to use it if I swing again.”/
I asked how old were these boys and he responded that they were grown men./
I wanted to hug this boy but he ran from me too./
So i stopped running because I was low on stamina./
Then I decided to write a letter to God but I was unable to./
And then all components that made up me came back./
And they said that they ran from me because I denied the fact:
-that I am unable to die and that nothing and no one defines my ability, but me./
Should you ask why? My answer is that on the other side of that willow tree was God./
And while that stuttering little boy was searching for his mom, there was God./
When the teenager came out the room bloody nose and black eyed/
that there was something much greater than his circumstances that was holding him together./
Motivated him to believe that if he go after his dreams that he can endure any weather./
So if I am tempted to die before I wake, I pray to my Lord that my soul won’t break./

Mature Poets Only. Please Tell Me Whats Confusing About This Poem That I Wrote.?

If I am tempted to die before I wake, I pray to my Lord that my soul won’t break./
Shaking the fear of snakes who decided to stay up late to, try my faith./
“Does he have what it takes?”/
Mediocre or great?/
And time won’t wait./
Besides my side isn’t on time and I know time isn’t on my side./
So when you stare in the eyes of I, you’ll find a driven king who refuse to die./
Should you ask why? Check out my past:/
I see past the false subliminal and advertisements./
A wise man told me to search for myself behind my eye lids./
Yet I started crying, but then I remember that my uncle told me that men don’t cry./
Subsequently my aunt told me that men do lie./
So I lied on my pillow with my eyes close.
Until the sun-light rose and shined on my face. And I saw me with my back against a willow tree./
I called my name but I started running from me./
I ran after until I found a imitation/
who discourage me from chasing but little did the counterfeit know that I’m motivated by the doubt of my critics./
So i ran further
until i hear the little boy who stuttered.
And his peers deserted him so he started searching for his mother./
But his mother was searching for a man to love her.
And that man was looking for a one night stand undercover./
So i ran more
until i found a door , room 13. I was about to intrude but I saw a teenager coming out the room./
Black eyed, bloody nose, jeans with grass stains, and you can see the white meat in his knuckles./
He said that he was a victim of gang violence but he just wanted to get food from the store so that him and his sister could eat./
He said “Three days a week i had to walk this street. It was like the gangsters heard my stomach growling so they served up beef.
and one dude had heat and he threaten to use it if I swing again.”/
I asked how old were these boys and he responded that they were grown men./
I wanted to hug this boy but he ran from me too./
So i stopped running because I was low on stamina./
Then I decided to write a letter to God but I was unable to./
And then all components that made up me came back./
And they said that they ran from me because I denied the fact:
-that I am unable to die and that nothing and no one defines my ability, but me./
Should you ask why? My answer is that on the other side of that willow tree was God./
And while that stuttering little boy was searching for his mom, there was God./
When the teenager came out the room bloody nose and black eyed/
that there was something much greater than his circumstances that was holding him together./
Motivated him to believe that if he go after his dreams that he can endure any weather./
So if I am tempted to die before I wake, I pray to my Lord that my soul won’t break./

What Do You Think Of Having This Attitude?

The Most Beautiful Flower
by Cheryl L. Costello-Forshey
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, “Look what I found!”
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn — not enough rain, or too little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted surprise,
“It sure smells pretty and it’s beautiful, too.
That’s why I picked it; here, it’s for you.”
The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, “Just what I need.”
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it midair without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
“You’re welcome,” he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he’d had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that’s mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy,
Another weed in his hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.