Writing is not coming natural anymore.
Stress is overwhelming and consuming me.
It’s beating me down, making everything dull and lifeless–
like a black and white photograph that has no depth or dimension.
I am forcing myself to write this.
Maybe It is supposed to make me feel.. better?
What is better? What is healing? What is acceptance? These all feel like foreign words.
I command thee..
Go find the words, where are they hiding!
Maybe they are there…. behind the scared mother.
Maybe they are there…. behind the helpless protector.
Maybe they are there…. hiding behind the disappointed parent.
Maybe they are there….lurking behind the anger that I can no longer control when we talk.
Maybe I am just speechless.. utterly shocked by your choices.
Will this ever stop…
Why are you blaming me?
Are you that confused?
Why don’t you want help?
Are you comfortable… being scattered and disheveled?
I did not make you take those pills.
I did not tell you to drink.
I did not force you to smoke.
Yet you blame me…
your anger, your defiance and your deliberate actions scream back at me,
that I am to blame.
I did not cause this!
You took this path!
You made these choices!
I am only reacting.
I don’t know how to do it any other way…
Transforming the World Through Love
I was washed away with glory.
My vision crystal clear
No more lies or stories,
that will take place here..
Perception is not the final word;
I have been so wrong.
Now that I can see this
Please, let me sing my song.
My heart is filled with ardent joy
for love and life abound.
The diamond reflected facet of hope
is dancing all around
Let me share with you my dreams
so that you can see them too.
Then you will give to those you love,
like I have given to you.
The Art of Writing
weaves their soul
thread by thread
yarn by yarn
A writer does not just
they take you
on a splendid journey with them
what we want you to
not by accident
It is intentional.
Like the Painter
spill out on the canvas,
As much Art
as a photo,
or a piece of clay.
We have given birth to a child–
We have carved out
parts of ourselves
placed them in the public eye
Allowed to be criticized
and torn apart.
As early as Horace,
critics with only visual skills
fail to see the value
in the art of words
— for shame…
A writer can dissect
any painters message
and give it new
Quiet Creature Comforts
Peaches, Mangoes, Walnuts and Brown Sugar,
baked in a muffin.
Crisp Green Lettuce
on my Turkey sandwich.
Long lazy naps on a Saturday afternoon.
Hot coffee in my mug and nowhere to be.
Warm sun on my shoulders,
warm grass under my bare feet.
Grilled Fajitas and a Movie for two.
Finding the place in the sheets that is still cool
— seeking it out with my toes.
Sleeping in on Sunday Mornings
well past where I should.
Quiet Creature comforts
— relaxation well deserved.
Thank you Promising Poets Parking Lot and The one who Nominated me for Poets Rally Week 45.
I nominate Summer Rain