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One day we all die. All that remains are the photos and memories. Perhaps a person could write it all down and leave something of themselves behind; their thoughts, their memories. And in their written thoughts, perhaps "Love" is eventually understood and found. One day we all die. We all die one day. I shall ghost with the best of them ... a very ghostly ghost.(LadyLabyrinth/Leanne Lovejoy-Burton)
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Some things can never be forgiven. Forgiving yourself for not forgiving, is enough forgiveness. (LadyLabyrinth/Leanne Lovejoy-Burton)
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Witches were once burnt at the stake for being something other than who they truly were, at the hands of people, who were less than noble in mind and more sullied. (LadyLabyrinth/Leanne Lovejoy-Burton)
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Love cradles Sorrow for a while, comforting it in its arms, stroking it like a pet to be controlled, adored and loved, until Love realises that Sorrow needs free range to express itself. Eventually like all wild things, Sorrow needs to be released, to be transformed into something higher and more hauntingly beautiful.
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Love opens the door to and for Sorrow. The choice is Sorrow’s direction. Of course, interpretation is also poetically open, dear Poet. From observation, like Love, Sorrow adores company, like Love, Sorrow is not averse to sharing its cage with numbers of other Sorrows, all requiring to be fed, they eventually have their fill and leave, spreading their wings for Lighter realms.
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Love invites Sorrow in, to feed its hunger, quench its thirst...Sorrow has been sorely deprived of succour and unconditional nurture in most states of distress, sadness, betrayal, rejection, hurt, loss, grief (are only but a few called by name)...when Sorrow is well fed, and transfiguring into its better, higher lighter form, the captive/s eventually are let loose - it is Sorrow's choice of course, whether Sorrow stays or goes.
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"The Light and the Dark of it. Some people will go to extraordinary measures for redemption. Some people go to extraordinary lengths for Love. Some will call it courage. Others will denigrate the truth of the fall in delivery as foolish. There are benefits to falling, to the breaking: beginning, middle, end. If not the whole, you cannot see but a part of yourself in others, then there is something vitally humane missing in you. You are "Godless". No matter how clean and worthy you deem yourself.
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Poetry is a place you get lost in to find yourself, to 'feel' something. One could say it is all cerebral. But it is to 'feel' something, whether you are the poet or the reader (in music lyrics sung, the "listener").
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The poet, the writer ... is sharing their thoughts and feelings with the universe on another level. Revealing their greatest vulnerabilities as some sort of cathartic alm towards understanding and empathy, or there for the grace of God go I. Perhaps a confessional place where they commune with themselves and readers will acknowledge that similar darkness and light within themselves and not feel so different, or alone. This is the way of all writing, whether it is about joy, or despair.
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Poetry is another language to carry the psyche through the various dimensions of dark and light. It is an abstract built-in mechanism for most poets/musicians whether they write limericks, long tomes, or lyrics, to cope with living and the measures of existing, life and death, love, loss, to understand, to make sense, to find answers, to "feel".
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Poetry and writing, conveys a story, written by the writer for the writer, intentionally or ignorantly unaware they are sharing their psyche, with the reader. It is a form of journaling. The beautifully precious and precocious Anne Frank comes to mind, her poignant and profound writes of Light came in the darkest moments of her young life.
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All stories written and lived are Light and Dark. Some are geared more towards exposing the light, as they reveal dark. Humour is both Light and Dark; perhaps in some instances humour is borne from dark. To experience Light, dark exposes itself, subtly or confronting. Without night, there is no morning.
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Creativity, is a beautiful thing, when it comes from the heart, light and dark, glued back together with poetry. Love.
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We are all books, poems, songs, abstract and not so abstract art walking, the pages and chapters immersive and crowded.
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"The walls are not falling like Jericho, they are dissolving; brick by brick. Beyond the purple haze, a golden place."
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We are not our souls, we are envelopes. Some remain unopened, some opened and delivered. Some clearly marked, "Return to Sender".
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"I will never murder my little darlings. I shall put them on a pedestal and feed them LOVE." (LadyLabyrinth/Leanne Lovejoy-Burton)
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At some point, you have to let go of the “value” of how other people see you, for if you do not, it is at great personal cost to yourself – I say this with 'some' wisdom and further contemplation, that in doing all this, you are not harming another living human being or creature.
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Life and death. We are on loop. Many of us are surviving our own breech birth, after initial entry, in mysterious ways. Eventually, whatever the play or cost, light appears in one form or another. Much Love. Because Love is all that matters in this world for humanity to make Light, see Light. And that is what this world and humanity needs most.
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I think the worst person you can let down ever, is yourself. The person you must never run away from, but confront full on is yourself. The greatest Strength is always found in the time of breaking, of pure vulnerability, when towers crumble and you are walking through the wreckage, the person you must salvage first is yourself.
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Ugly pain is savage and beautiful. It's kind of like child birth. That's a war cry, in itself. Ugly pain can tear your whole world apart; without belief of something greater outside of the pain, weakness wins, but strength is belief in something, bigger, better...that always wins...and that is fierce.
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The sands of time move in and out with the tide, to revisit other shores, some over and over again, perpetuating lessons, rebuilding sandcastles, and bringing messages, like the whispering ocean voice carrying secrets from seashells, the notes written in ancient languages in glass containers for translation.
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The sands of time wash in and out, the drag pulls the shoreline out from under our feet. And there we are in the swim of it all again...surfing, dumped, yet we get back up again, and again. Our choice. This freedom.
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Creatives I Admire (Part 1) - The writers and creatives I gravitate to, are those who have been driven to the depths of despair, experienced the greatest pain on many levels (physical and emotional), have survived to share with us their experiences, whether they are cast as outsiders or received as enfant terrible geniuses and welcomed by society with open arms (while many of those creatives such as those I speak of, shun those open arms).
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Creatives I Admire (Part 2) - Those creatives who have experienced, 'going over the edge', have plummeted to the depths of despair, loneliness, emotional and physical pain, are the ones who have the greatest appreciation for beauty and love, and an understanding of the cost paid for loss; and while some do not survive the plunge, their experiences make us understand what it truly is to be ‘human’. Those are the writers/creatives who I gravitate to and admire.
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a pen dipped in blood
as is a robe
so writes a mind
now is unrobed
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That girl she is hell bent. That girl she is hell bent on reaching heaven. That girl she is a message of love rolled up in ash, smoking hot, she’s still glowing. Light bulb brain, like a genie...rub. 3 wishes - come, undone. Light and Dark is a mysterious thing. Light bulb brain, like a genie...rub. 3 wishes. That girl is hell bent.
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...one day we all die, we all must leave something of our love behind for those who need our love the most ... time is a precious commodity, stolen and squandered by the injustices and untruths of life.
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Love like an ocean is mercurial. Subject to changing constancy; underneath the waves, in the deepest bed lies true love, watching us tread water, waiting for us to turn late or early, it does not matter; we dive deeper to find its arms open, ready to envelop us. We go searching for pearls, drowning in it all, treasure like wisdom to be found
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Life above the waves, Blue Sky reflects light, deeper than we care to admit. Sun and gold found in the unlikeliest depths, lighting up all dimensions. And we rise. Eventually.
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