Long Your own making Poems
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One more year before the wild bird flies her coop.
Not bad. Bravo. Wise one.
You are more than enough.
Your optimism shines throughout your poems.
You know yourself.
Any idea how rare that is?
There are seventy-year olds who have no idea of themselves
They live a life set down by others
Follow a path
not their own
They do not realize there was a choice
No one said it
Whether miserable or barely happy, they do not complain
Knowing no better.
One more year before you leave the family nest, my friend
Your words will carry you to great heights,
You will write poetry to help save the others
It will come more naturally and completely
as you sleep in a nest of your own making
With pillows you choose and a comforter that
makes you feel safer than you had ever dared dreamed.
A mere 365 days until you can be fully, utterly, diabolically you.
Live spontaneously! Enthusiastically kick around your joy.
Take risks. Love people no one else ever would or could.
Bring home stray puppies. Dance your dance. Sing your song.
You are on your way. Only 365 days. I am so proud of you.
I see the optimism and enthusiasm in your poetry, and I smile
realizing you are heading toward the biggest adventure of your life.
I love this for you. Take risks. Have fun. Fear no one.
Enjoy yourself like you have never enjoyed yourself before.
Happy birthday. It is almost time....
I’m just your servitor, here to serve your every need
Where I am wholly here to serve to your every whim
Crawling on my hands and knees until they bleed
Trapped within these chains wrapped around my limbs
Crawling in your footsteps I will follow you
Accepting my punishment for not loving you enough
You now having the power to make me do
I wallow in my own self-pity until my life you snuff
My eyes blackened with depravity my urge for you is so great
My empty soul emptied at your feet as I lust you more
Dying a thousand times into an unconsciousable state
My crumbled body lying where it has died so many times before
I am grasping at your ankles, pleading to take me more
Where your rejection of me fuels what bit of me is left
I will never have my own respect, or ever learn the score
My lonely aching heart wallowing in its own bereft
This ball and chain you suffer; not of your own making
Her own depravity set upon you, in its own sheer wanton state
Deserting her and punishing her, and leaving her forsaking
No pity given to her, of her own fantasy world she alone did create
A servitor of her own making, here only to serve your every need
You may not want her, but she lives within her own ignorance
Where the more you make her suffer, the more her internal greed
As her depraved bleeding soul pleas for your final deliverance
I wrote
Alas
But never listen to the musings of myself
The World is not out get Me
I am
It's all in my Head
I tell myself as much So
But what do you know
If i could Give anyone
1 or the Greatest piece of Sage Advice
It would deffenitely be This
Forget Sunscreen
EMBRACE
POSITIVITY FULL ON
Attitude, Outlook, Perception
Is All of your own Making
Want to be Miserable
Be NEGATIVE
Want to Succeeded and be Happy
Be POSITIVE
Think only Happy Positive Thoughts
And I GUARANTEE
Nay PROMISE
Stake my Life on It
Tomorrow for you will be
ETERNALLY BETTER
Than what you have become
Accustomed Too
I pray God Willing
If 1 Single Soul
Tomorrow wakes
To a brighter day
With a light at the end of a Dark Tunnel
Then Someone Else through the grace of God
Has so 2 broken trough
And can then pass on 2 someone else
The way and how to get out
Until no 1 is left behind
But the Reaper and his Raven
Don't promise me or say things that you don't really mean
Don't say that you love me and then start to act obscene
Don't promise me a fairytale, and that I will be your Queen
Don't say it's forever then run off with some young teen
Never get my hopes up and then dash them to the ground
I might not get over it if you kick me when I'm down
Never promise and not deliver there is no 2nd round
One day you may look for me and I'm nowhere to be found
Don't play with my feelings I am not your pocketbook
Then try to walk away as if I let you off the hook
Don't promise me you'll repay me so I finance your chores
Then leave me alone without a home because I helped with yours
Maybe your intentions were well meant as you once said
But your word was never heard except inside my head
Promised me the light then left me in the dark
Feeling like the jackalope that did not make it to the Ark
Once your word is spoken, it should not be taken back
Your given word is not lightly heard so best you keep track
One day it may mean the difference between someone’s life or death
But if your word isn't worth a turd their life won't be worth jack
People are pretenders dressing up for their own games
One day they find their in a bind and still push anyway
Maybe they will read this or perhaps their time has past
They play their play and go away - forget what happened last
If your Word is worthless, said only for your own gain
A trail of disappointment, do you even feel ashamed?
It is of your own making and there is no one else to blame
Start right now repair the trail and redeem your family name
If you promise someone - you should try to follow through
Do your best - put it to the test this isn't something new
There was an old saying that I've heard a thousand times
You are only as good as your word, THE WORD YOU STAND BEHIND
I have seen you wandering through my life
A hundred nights in a lonely downtown bar
We have never spoken a single word
Our eyes have never met
Yet I wonder what are you thinking?
You sit alone at midnight
The crowds move around you
No one says a word to you
I doubt that you hear the music
But your fingernails click in time to the beat
Your eyes are dark and cold
They stare straight ahead
Looking at a hundred people
You do not see them
Your thoughts in another place
It is almost as if you cannot hear the song
Almost as if the people do not exist
You are in a world of your own making
Are you thinking about a long lost kiss?
Or maybe about the love you never found
Maybe you are just a sad, lonely drunk
Without a thought in her head
Maybe if I spent time with you
Shared even the briefest moment
We could talk
Maybe we could have a dance or two
And at last you could hear the music
The gods were deleted and the tribes archived
the Vista-View—two bedrooms
beige-on-beige a fungal beard
colonizing the microwave’s lip
You watched the iron bars then the glass
then the greenish biometric light
the glass drinks the whorls of your thumb
a cyan leech labeling the ridges before
the neurons arrive early
coaxing a instinct to open its eye
matter blinking awake in their wake
always a beat behind
its outline—stubborn delayed—stumbling to catch up
A vertebra clicks and the world misfires
the locker room’s thick lactating reek
wet cement and the chemical musk of
Axe Phoenix—a scent so violent
it strips the insulation
it kicks you back into the teenage animal
gristle of your own neck
3:14 a.m. at the Wawa parking lot
sodium lamps stutter in saltatory arcs
leaking amber data into the asphalt
a signal failing to hop the gap
unsure which reality they are meant to illuminate
You a prisoner
You the Ouijaboard
the opera is transcribed in unpaid late hours
stripped myelin pale lipids drifting like snow
the white noise of your own making
slowed to an unmarketable frequency
The listening that is not a listener
does not want your confession
it waits for the precise imperceptible
asymptomatic instant
your respiration falls out of compliance
Status: nerve sheath thinning
Status: saltatory conduction faltering
Status: epineurium issuing final instructions
V- iolence found in the hand of one who claims
“I- must be god!”
O- watch your back when you think you can attack the
L- iving God.
E- veryone will bend. You drop to your knees, loudly weeping.
N- ettles of your own making. Would that you
C- all out to Jesus, who can free you from
E- ternal damnation. This is a clear warning. Change direction.
10/26/2021
And from the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven suffers violence, and the violent take it by force. Matthew 11:12 NKJV
Benson commentary from biblehub.com:
The spirits of men are so excited and animated by a desire after this kingdom, that it is, as it were, attacked like a besieged city, men of all sorts pressing to get into it, with a violence like that of men who are taking a place by storm. As if he had said, “Multitudes are flocking around me, to be instructed in the nature of my kingdom; and some, who were formerly of most licentious characters, and looked upon as utterly unfit to be subjects of the Messiah’s kingdom, are resolutely set on enjoying the blessings of it.”
YOU ARE MY STYLUS
MY BLUEPRINT EMBEDDED
WRITTEN IN THE SMALLEST PARTS OF ME
YOU DREW ME FORTH
AND MY DESIGN
WAS TO CARRY OUT YOUR INSTRUCTIONS
YOU TRACED OUT MY FRAMEWORK
FILLED IN MY OUTLINE
YOU DIVIDED MY FORM
CONSTRUCTED MY MOLECULES
AND EVERY CELL WITHIN THEM
INLAID WITH THE VAST ARRAY OF POSSIBILITIES
YOUR GLORY THEREIN IS DECLARED
THE VESTIBULE OF MY FABRICATION
MY SHAPING AND TRANSLATION
THE PERFORMANCE OF YOUR OWN
DIRECTION
THE AUTHOR OF MY ORIGINS
YOUR MEDIUM NURTURED ME
IN THE WOMB OF LIFE
BROUGHT FORTH MY BEING
AND CLOTHED ME
MASTERFULLY
WITH EVERY DESIRABLE ELEMENT
YOU COULD GIVE
YOUR HANDIWORK AMONGST
ALL THAT YOU HAVE CRAFTED
YOU HAVE WRAPPED ME
WITH YOUR OWN ELOQUENCE
DRESSED ME WITH THE FABRIC
OF YOUR OWN MAKING
THE SETTING OF YOUR OWN TREASURIES
HAVE BECOME MY GEMS
THEY ARE A PRAISE THAT EXALTS
THE WORKS OF YOUR OWN HANDS
YOUR BLESSINGS ARE WITHOUT NUMBER
AND YOUR RICHES ARE TO VAST TO COUNT
FOR MY DESIRE IS SUBJECT
TO ALL THAT YOU HAVE LAID
BEFORE ME
YOUR OWN WORKMANSHIP HAS
ADORNED
ALL THAT IS TO BE TREASURED
YOUR OWN PENCIL HAS LEAD ME
TO THE DRAWING OF LIFE
THE PATTERN LAID OUT BY YOUR
ONLY BEGOTTEN SON
AND WE ARE THE WORK OF HIS HANDS
Poetry of Providence
All rights reserved 2015
Ps 119:73 Ecc 11:5 Is 29:16 43.:1 44:24 Jer 1:5
You try to make sense of what happened
But it’s always the same
Bad news hits hard
The cruelest part
Is the lingering doubt
That things could have been different.
In your heart
You know that
You need to hold on
You’re running out of time
Like a drunken sailor
Lurching
From one disaster after another
None of your own making.
Alone, at night your imagination is on overdrive
Nerves stretched tight
Restless
You want to do something
But there is nothing to do
You evaluate your life
The first thought
Is outright denial
Of what has happened
Followed by anger
Regret
Then an uneasy acceptance.
Life, which so often disappoints
Could have been better
Perhaps if you worked harder
Or studied longer
It might have been different
You have fallen down so many times
On the long road of longevity
That you smile
At your own stupidity
Reasoning
That it could have been worse
Or it could have been much, much better
But who is to say?
You survived
Wind
Rain
And storms
Life was not perfect
It was what it was
As you face the winding roads
It gets a little easier
The rough parts are behind you
Your life has already taken shape
And you could not call any of it back
From your life of long ago
Or sense how badly you missed the days
When you were young.
1. The Rap Sheet
At your age
you should have put aside
the relentless rounds
of self interrogation
and found some plateau
of peace washed by
warm memories, acceptance
and absolution.
But just when you thought
you had been granted freedom,
the mind's Stasi finds you
and the forensic questioning
continues under the glare
of guilt. The same
rap sheet - you were never
good enough
to be a citizen of the State.
Only now you are slowly losing
the strength to hang on
to what little you have
and not confess.
In the end it is not
a matter of who is right
and who is wrong,
it comes down to survival.
2. A Confined Space
Finally it becomes inescapable -
the accumulations of a lifetime
solidify into a cell. Every fear,
every avoidance, every step taken
to withdraw cements a brick
in place until you have imprisoned
yourself within four walls. Then
you close the self locking door.
Your life now is a confined space
and your only hope of salvation
has become a small crack
in the wall through which
the universe shines through
in such exquisite detail
and brightness and is made
more so by your own dark.
3. Staring Fear In The Face
You are a good practitioner,
a cultivator of fear planted
in the fertile soils of childhood.
You have grown the most grotesque
blooms whose perfumes paralyse
and waft for years without
a loss of potency. Some stick
in the throat and send panic
clamouring for breath.
And so here you are, old man,
wearing the disfigurement
of your own making, the contorted
masks of fear. You stare
into the mirror, past the horror,
shame, the loathing, the lifelong
condemnation and shrink
before an illuminating light
whose source you fear,
who sees you and yet
still loves you.