Long My own thoughts Poems
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i awoke this morning
to the sun
licking dry any dew
that remained from the night,
or from dreams
that flickered like lost stars
in my deepest thoughts.
i never surrendered my mind
to this water-colored day
that sat on a half-painted canvas
awaiting for me to dust off the night's glow
from my own smiling face.
who said dreams are made for night?
nights seems too short
to trade in for one day,
one day to dream, broken thoughts
as they weave in and out of my mind,
much like the sun did with the clouds,
but i too drifted, winded across the horizons
and generated almost as much heat
as the day itself.
night had come again
and i watched as the sky exploded
into an array of colors around me,
wrapping me deeper in my own thoughts
as i dreamt of you once more.
Do you ever know what you mean to someone?
I don’t
Thought I was doing a bad job
At least not to the level that I want me to do
Well today I met a client at Sam’s
The client I had helped before
She smiled and said the name of my organization
And said “you work there
You are my favorite worker”
I was taken aback
A little shock
I was?
Her favorite worker?
What an honor
I don’t know about you
But that means a lot to me
A little affirmation
Sometimes we can be so hard on ourselves
Not knowing what we do is right
The right words
The right way
Anyhow I thought I’d share
Just do the best that you can
And don’t be too hard on yourself
Things will fall in places
When they will
You just be
I shared that with my sister
And she said “you made a difference in her life”
Did you know that?
I sure didn’t
Know that I can make a difference
in someone’s life
That’s huge
Anyhow
Hope I make a difference in someone’s life
Everyday
That would be a goal worth striving for
Let’s see now
If I can make one smiles
Would that be a goal worth striving for?
If I can make their lives better?
If
Now I am rambling
Back to my own thoughts
Like I told my sister
“I just do the best I can”
And God will do the rest
Seems my handwriting will never improve,
Yearlong efforts, letters still oblong.
Not quite right, but we pretend it’s not all bad,
I fixate on each line, a prerequisite approach.
So next and then that line and its spacing, proper
striving for excellence, sentence, cursed to find
some semblance, a distant echo. Earshot.
Eardrum. POP!
Outward rang disdain, my reality indifferent,
Marks resembling a bell curve in chicken sketch,
It distorts my outlook, tarnishes self-image.
I try with practice sheets laid out,
Only to be reminded of the horrors I scrawl within.
Devastating, humiliating,
Suppressing nausea,
Sick of this, hating my own thoughts,
Ruining half-decent poems or ideas.
Regardless of merit or talent shown,
sent into the fire.
scribe on restroom walls
its contrived and
makes me writhe.
I discard writing tools,
My creative well runs dry, deceased,
Gone, past tense, already done in.
Progress slower than a snail,
with kidney failures
Skull soon exposed.
I’ll tear at my scalp,
Writing used to be fun.
You'll say, 'shut my trap'.
The torment I hold towards
every pen, pencil, or marker on any shelf.
Chasing after graphite,
specific utensils, lead grade, ink, acrylic,
I want them gone, obliterated,
Every trace, every hint.
EXTINGUISHED EVERY PEICE OF
. . .
Sorry, I get carried away...
This heretic! The disappointment,
Frail and brittle behind every attempt.
All result in zero, void, null, nil.
Here I sit, head in hands,
My task forever incomplete,
More setbacks, my drive
and desire to compete.
Now I understand why progress is elusive, unseen.
Hard-scoped when each step shown seems hopeless
rooted in the waste of regression.
I would be remiss if my speech lacked spirit.
Results: Inconclusive
Next topic: I digress,
I relinquish anima,
Lay to rest a thousand eyes’ constraints,
Seeking arrangements through attainment.
If there's space to graze, then seize the day.
Something bountiful in the invisible,
Nature's beauty in the winds of change,
Wrinkles on sheets of belief,
A moment for molecules deem insignificant,
Nested in the fabric of space-time,
An embarrassment that's all mine,
It is really all fine.
Signed, A construct for mortality.
My ideal love is a love that catches me by surprise.
The realization of intelligent things and conversations that literally take us anywhere.
My ideal love is a love that expresses ideal.
The ramifications that influence us to be who we really are in front of who we are.
A love that doesn't mind bargin shopping and putting together hundred dollar outfits that really cost $10.
The reality that its the most simplest of things that are most significant.
A spontaneous love that doesn't mind the predictability of living today before exploring the mystery of tomorrow.
Here after the after thought that we exist in the past as well as the present simultaneously.
If ever in need I'll do my best to provide all that I can for an ideal love.
Through these actions I believe the true miracle is achieved.
An ideal love that is beyond ideal.
Who sets the where and how we meet, the institutions of bliss where the masses are limited to love and longing.
To find patience and compassion sitting on the front lawn on the same institution.
As long as she provides a kiss that can send me outside of my own thoughts, and pull me closer to hers.
My ideal love wouldn't be based on a B.E.T movie.
A single expression that summarizes a scorned woman letting go.
A cliff note of lust soon as the next sceen fades to black.
Her panties pulled down not knowing the dude is secretly abusive.
140 minutes gone by to realize the last 5 mins were the ones that made her truly happy.
The woes of love.
My ideal love is a woman built with ambition but with a heart big enough to understand that without sacrifice nothing is truly accomplished.
A culture made in truth, ripped off by those who ignore that struggle is what makes us who we are.
The courage to walk out in front and be who we really are.
A real woman that doesn't mind lounging around the house that knows whom Budda and Huey Newton was.
This revolution of ideal starts the moment I realize that I never stood a chance.
The surprise of her lips against my cheek.
I drink from this remedy each time you open your lips.
So in silence I gasp.
As you caught me off guard,
My ideal love
Lone Ranger
Three days are gone, alone in my cabin
Not a word is written in these rooms of silence
Writing in a vacuum does not behoove me.
I need an input someone with thoughts of their own.
Reflecting my own thoughts in the mirror
Are unbreakable cycles like a troll under a bridge
That can no longer see the difference between a goat or sheep.
Starve it does not being able to catch rainbow trouts
As laziness seeps into his bones.
Sore is my head from trying to burst out of this encircling
Of the stale, fearful of the new, I must read more,
Work by writers I don’t care for, but has something
Different to say or a new twist of words. I’ve tended to
Read too much, Hemingway.
RELATED BY CHOICE
For my adopted grandmother Nancy Enloe
I met you at a friend’s house,
standing stately on your cane,
tall and rosy-cheeked like me.
In your smile, I basked and thought,
“Long-lost cousin, could you be?”
Like my great aunt long ago,
when you learned I love to write,
you gave me three r’s of verse:
Robert Wash, Service, and Frost,
and asked to read my own work.
Like my aunt in my childhood,
you invited me for swims.
In your pool, I splashed and laughed.
Like her, you asked to hear me play
my organ -the whole grand staff!
On a ten-day Rockies trip,
Jasper, Banff, and Lake Louise,
friends asked if you were my mom.
We smiled at that pleasing word
like Gilead’s healing balm.
One day, as we drove along,
you said just out of the blue,
that you’d be Grandma to me.
As if you spoke my own thoughts,
I grinned as wide as you could see.
Oh, once we got to be twins
in blazers you bought for us.
You knitted us two rainbow scarves
for walking in wintry air
or through the winds on the wharves.
You’ve been family to me,
all six relations in one.
How fun it would be to find
on genealogy sites
if we’re related for real.
No matter! It feels just right!
It’s not like I woke up insane one day…
It started back when I was more resilient.
But resilience eventually turned into persistence.
And no one wants a pestering fool.
I became dedicated to a life of clairvoyance.
But the world moved too quickly to be predicted.
And people became too impatient to listen.
I am no longer receptive to uncertainty.
But the future continues to elude me.
I can no longer receive voices of truth.
Only the rambling messages that I chase.
Which are really my own thoughts.
Now I’m in a place…
Where everyday is predictable.
And every terrible night is forgotten.
And everyone’s family is lost and crying for us.
But we can not hear their cries.
Mom- I hope you can hear my thoughts.
Because I can not speak right now.
But my thoughts simply bounced off the walls.
And uncertainty haunts me again.
Woke up to no sun
it was just the darkness of dawn
on my own in a world I had created
birthed by my own thoughts
characterized by the sum of my fears and desires
through the manifestation of my thoughts believed.
Progressively, evolving being I am; learning
Earnestly applying remedy to the defects of my character
For every thought-seed sown takes root,
sooner or later blossoms bearing its own fruits
Good, Bad - I had to learn to find delight
Revealing to me, myself
In acknowledgement that my prayers were merely song,
that I had to find the rhythm in the beat and harmonise self with its frequency
Let go the cliche that we must disregard those that have different views from us
Restructure my thinking in remembrance that the oppressor and the slave are co-operators in ignorance
and that only in reality are afflicting themselves
Had to conquer my own weaknesses
meet me some light
Oh world meet phoenix me as I rise with the sun,
to a world anew, freedom and reach my outmost potential
Become the True ME
#hosh_kharamaima
Have you seen my wife?
I mean these floral petals,
wrapped in her aura.
Like sun-kissed morning breeze,
Soothing ones mind, to it's gist.
On my wrist, time flies like snow loosing its purity to African temperature.
It's her I'm struggling to grasp, perfectly perfected in her imperfection.
Voluptuously, sculptured check.
Heaven must have exhausted its resource.
Caramel, touched check.
That no price tag melanin, can only be God shelved.
Stature, balanced check.
Rarity never walked this earth, to date beauty and the brains. Blue moon, I bow with nothing less than gratitude.
Poised, levels check
Thought only stones were capable of creating ripples, call professionals to resuscitate me here.
They don't make them, like this anymore.
I mean, stars gazes at her every glimpse.
like stolen star dust,
I'm forced to wear white silk gloves to handle her delicacies.
Moon illuminates, at her every motion, like halo invisible attached to her crown.
Sun blows her glow, with kisses at every glance, incarcerate me before I be charged with the highest offense in the country;
in possession of a hosh kharamaima!
Sitting here pondering,
lost in wonders of my own thoughts,
Fidgeting and counting numbers my brain can't fathom.
please tow me back to my senses.
It's her over there, seething through my mind,
got me hooked on that beautiful view, like a junkie but on her exquisite exuberance.
Wondering what level of ecstasy, you gonna subject me to, upon our next encounter.
Wish I could print out this picture perfect dangling on my mind wall, to a nearby sculpture, so to craft her every edge, every trim and every tone to the tier.
Cassper said, she's a hosh kharamaima
#Poetic_Ink
Doesn't everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?
In the vast garden of stillness, where the shadows of memories stretch like ancient trees,
I wander, a solitary figure, tracing the map of my own thoughts,
Whispering secrets to the wind that carries the fragrance of forgotten dreams.
Is it the silence that speaks, or do we impose our own stories upon its blank canvas,
Painting it with hues of longing and regret, with the watercolor of our past?
The stars above, silent witnesses to countless nights of yearning,
Gleam like scattered pieces of a broken heart, each one holding a fragment of my soul.
I walk through the labyrinth of my mind, each twist and turn echoing with the ghosts of unsaid words,
Their absence a melody that lingers, haunting the corridors of my consciousness.
The moonlight, a silver thread weaving through the tapestry of my solitude,
Illuminates the path of introspection, where every step is a dance with my own shadow.
In this silent symphony, every pause is a universe,
A space where the echoes of my thoughts collide and merge,
Creating constellations of meaning, galaxies of introspection.
The silence around me is a mirror, reflecting the depth of my inner world,
Where every moment of stillness is a chapter of an unwritten story,
A poem sculpted in the silence of my heart, waiting to be discovered.
The river of time flows silently, its waters carrying the whispers of eternity,
And I, a solitary traveler, drift along its currents,
Listening to the silent songs of the universe, the unspoken truths of existence.
In the quietude, I find solace, a sanctuary where the soul can rest,
Where silence is not an absence, but a presence,
A living, breathing entity that speaks in the language of the heart.
And so, I embrace the silence,
Not as a void to be filled, but as a canvas to be painted,
With the colors of my dreams, the brushstrokes of my thoughts,
Creating a masterpiece of melancholy,
A testament to the beauty of silence,
And the power of our imagination.