You've never been to Texas. You never really wanted to go somewhere like that: The scalding heat, the oblivious desert, the gun-toting outlaws (okay this part is just fictional, they don't really carry shotguns and hate black folks to the point of chasing them off with pitchforks-and-torches now, do they?.....seriously do they?...cus' Lord knows I don't know). You don't like the town, that's all. Nothing personal, you just prefer a frozen tundra or at least, a place where rain falls....often. As for the guns, well, you did grow up in a hood mostly filled with reckless youth who never knew what respect was so long as there was a weapon within reach, and old hands that never hesitated to beat you always near-to-death just because you existed. So yes, you've got no problems wielding a shank, skive, skeng, bloody Janix, and any other shit you can find when you decide to send a brother into a two feet by six feet hole early....the locals don't know that though. You love the nice people...but they seem too nice, and for a brother, too nice means you better vamoose before they love you to death; Case in point: the movie Get Out. You don't dig the weather. That place got heatwaves that rival that of Sokoto on a good day and makes Kano seem cool during summer. Not the weather for this reptile, thanks very much. You are a sucker for Alaska, and Vancouver and Siberia and the nice gentle Antarctica. Not coyote country.
When you hear the name "Texas", you almost immediately have to fight the thought of the Southern outback wilderness, two opposite trains coming at full speed on what was, for many years before and many more to come, abandoned tracks; A jackal, a murder of crows and some introspective vultures nearby, watching the ensuing clash of the locomotives from the dry mountain-like hills that have eyes, forgive the reference; A black man, 6 feet plus, walking with purpose into the path of the oncoming trains. That man is you.
You want to visit Texas, the good ol' loving and caring state of Texas. Not for the booze, which is renowned for being good; you don't drink, not anymore, No, Sir. Not for the women, and the women sure ain't gon' like you; A tall boy that don't talk much and don't drink and don't even want to associate himself with the locals is good for one thing only: trouble, with a capital U. Not for the delicious food and fine cuisines and oh, their wonderful maternal hand-me-down secret recipes; You love to cook but you love to starve more. Not for the air or the climate; Dry air makes your skin itch and you sweat shiny stuff like some dumb vamp in the sun. Not for the sex, Heavens, No; Why you think any lass would choose to ride BBCs intentionally/willingly is a freaking mystery, mate. Newsflash: they won't, so keep Fenris down there in check. Can't have him scaring the folks and making the men get whingy about their cock sizes. Not for the cowboys, thank psycho Uncle Sam for remembering that: You've rounded up blind bulls with your pen most of your miserable life, now is the time to rest those big balls of yours, young blood. Not for the livestock and wildlife; You've got enough animals love, and the dogs there are too feeble and small to be of any use to you, Except of course you find yourself a nasty giant Cujo. Then Steve Austin can cringe in terror as you bring Stephen King's nightmares to life on dem rattlesnakes. Hell Yes. Amen. Not for the hell of it; You want hell? Dude, you are a Nigerian with an English accent. Surely, only the literal Hell itself can be worse than getting chinged or crashed in on these meddlesome streets. Nah. You want to go to the Southern (or is it Western?) part of America for a whole different reason.
For a writer, life is always ...I suppose I'd say "interesting"? Just a minute ago, I heard a gunshot in the thunder Now you may wonder how it is that I heard such You see, once, in another life I would have been the one to do that Right before I let off a few more bullets into ...well, let's not speak about the past
I hear the rain running. My my, it's hard on its heels, Drumming its merry way straight for me Now I can't go out tonight to watch it Oh but how I miss the feeling it gave when the rain poured down on me.
The air's chilly, I like that By now, you know that I am a sucker for the cold Immune to its misgivings and within it, I find myself at home But it's not as cold as I'd like, it's rainy season, not winter So I have settled for petrichor smells instead of rimy tears of the sky. _____________________________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Howling debris and raging downpours Hammering hail and roaring winds
Nothing is as violent as the storm, Nothing, well, except God.
You like the storm.
That gust of wind that blows left, no, right, wait..no..straight downward? Bad winds are the worst at giving directions Yet they are just heralds of a more magnificent thing to come You await the storm...in your own ways, prepare for it..one would think you'd made yourself a devout worshipper of such celestial weapons. Ah yes, isn't that a storm? A bloody celestial weapon of the Lord? The very noticeable, unrelenting, unyielding, definitely impressionistic weapon...it's like a Leviathan of the sky; You can't evade it, can't run from it, can't really prepare for it, not sure if you may even survive it; All you've got left to do is buckle down, pray, wait and pray harder you may have ever prayed before, and then pray some more. You love this feeling; You love how the storms that come are like destiny, like death; Absolutely inevitable.
Don't you just love that sound of music the rain makes Such symphony it creates; the splash and pitter-patter of the rain as it rattles like tiny speed dancers, The clash of lightning bolts across the sky that give off the illusion of blacksmiths at work and warriors at war The tender (yes, you are most definitely mental if you can call it "tender") loving voices of soothing thunder that race to embrace anything that breathes in breathtaking terror The furious gusts of winds that blow like ho-ho-ho time to piss off bells and oh-so-jolly ghosts, taking swings and cuts at those that walk and turning cement men, golden rods and about any other bloody thing up on over onto their merry heads That fury, that certainty, that unpredictable nature of it, it is final...it knows that unless the One-Above-All deems it so, it is free to rain down havoc in lots and in plenty ...that no matter how advanced we get, we can never fight it. No man is a god in the eye of the storm. The storm knows only two things that go as far as the eye can see: power and fear.
You hide your unconditional love for the storms from most people, Cus' won't it be weird if someone saw a person laying down right in the middle of a fairly used tarred road; Under the strong but merciless lashes of heavenly hydro-forces, with a smile cemented on their face like some distraught and delusional creep begging to get run over by an unfortunate moving machine?..... Yes, isn't that weird? So you stay inside when everyone is around and observe your graces from the supposed safety of your windows. Just then the temperature drops, The air in your chest begins to go.......and come Cold to the touch, brutal, methodic, slow, dreadful, seething: That is the storm. The limitless artist with dark brushes and wild paints, splashing over the world with a sense of foreboding doom, intentions seemingly unclear, you love how serenading the carnage it brings is; Obsidian, pale, grey, cautious, dirty, vicious, unstoppable, incredible, the real Juggernaut: That is the storm.
Frothy clouds of darkened rage filled with teary pain Moving across Coal-black skies Waves that thrash about the oceans and seas Spiking winds and booming bass drums of war to accompany beautiful flashes of white The listening sky, overwhelmed by such weariness Seeks to huff and puff at every single thing in existence A malevolent sorcerer made of pent-up emotion having things that were once here moments before, now gone the next.
Every living thing hides from the storm and watch in terror as the non-living suffer gracefully ...don't they? Every living thing........but you are not exactly living (or alive), are you? _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _____________________________________________
I know, I know, I'm abnormally insane But what I can say? One could say I'm the first, and the last of my kind. I don't talk much this days, and even if I want to, no one would try So when Nature send me her visitors, well, I embrace them like a lonely child.
It's been thirty three hours since I last slept. And now, it's almost 2 am, and my nocturnal nature keeps me wide eyed. The storm I love so much is dwindling down to a mere drizzle Four more hours of being awake for no reason; it's a shame I'm still alive 6 am, do take your sweet time, I'll be lonely still whether or not you come to take my bloody eyes. I am not looking forward to today's sleep, and the daymares/bad dreams that will come with it.
The truth is a pill too big to swallow. Maybe that's why you hide it so well. Every time you put that pen to paper, you're a hypocrite Because you are choosing the words and throwing the others down the well.
You write about cutting yourself and watching the blood turn into your ink, but not about the times you had to stare at your wrists and could almost see the bleeding veins. You talk about the drugs and needles and all the high and ease that comes with it, But not about the illusions that stung at your mind like angry hornets or the dulling aches that fill your system during the process. You discuss about the times the necklaces of ropes and river bridges above nearly claimed your life as their own, But not about how it felt to slowly choke as your own blood betrayed you when the air got caught in your throat and your mind conspired to have you fall and smash every bone in to the depths below. You chat about the love and life and times that have gone past as you travel down memory's old road, But not about the moments the loneliness felt awfully good, thoughts of death seemed so comforting and limbo was a nice pit stop for you to take a piss. You inform everyone who cares to know about the heartbreaks and losses and trashy feelings you've got left, But not about the orgasms that had you weeping, or the gifts that made you smile, or even the the emotional bliss you thought you had. You tell everyone the tricks to conquering fears and the guides to control Oh wait, no lectures about how the fears ruling you keep you alive and how sometimes being led is better for some than being a Simba to the lot of hyenas. You sing every word, play every tune, dance to every song But when the silence comes creeping in, you feel nothing and tell no one about it. You play the victim in every story you have told and the hero in every legend there is, No one seems to be the villain but the other partner in all these, so how the bloody hell did you learn to cheat? Topical segments dedicated to the secrets you buried sixteen feet down like some demon's hound, Yet none about the lies that got passed around at the very same table, those ones that took lives. All the raves about waking the sheep and slaying the shepherd, Forgetting that wolves are wide eyed lambs with bloodthirsty teeth. Decisions to attain godhood and dispatching away harmful mental values and disdainful societal constructs, But you don't know which is which so you rather whitewash every single block and meditate yourself into a deadly sleep. Doing everything by new standards and building up new towers to do away with old walls, Seems no one remembers how often revolutions leads to a different breed of slavery and the tales of how empires fall. You write almost everything and turn a pen to a sword, But never about the times you gave in to the lust Poems about the injustice, the ruins and the blood, None about the fire, the cumstains and the rust. You don't hesitate to let us know the mouths that you feed, Yet you can't recall killing or abandoning your kids. You say speeches about the good deeds you did Won't you tell, in many details, about every of your vilest sins?
Can you hear the wind? Do you hear its song; The song of the forest and all the children she's lost? Children she lost to the fire, children she lost to the blade: The fire that consumes all without mercy, and the blade that marks all without distinction. Mercy that men sing of the mouth of death: Death that forgets none and forgives all.
Can you hear the whistles and the chirps of the birds? Birds that once sang happily but now scamper in the wind. Wind that blows from every direction towards what; we do not know. What we do not know ofttimes causes fear to have its seeds sown Seeds that rise from fickle saplings to rise into mighty oaks. Oaks that once grounded now tower over all our hopes. Hope is something wanted but to the lost, one must never show Loss is at its strongest when the jungle of despair is born from withered hopes.
Can you see the leaves rustle? Can you see the hills tremble? Does the hill remember vaguely when once it was a pebble Pebbles that came together to build themselves a home A home that grew so large that it became a great mountain A mountain that fed itself off the blood of the men it had thrown off Blood, tainted,both pure and spilled as the sky heard their death throes Now the sky has come to claim its own; Can you hear its mourning moans?
Can you feel the earth rising? Can you feel its core as it stirs? It stirs an uprising, As it spews the bones of the dead. The dead that once were creatures, some big and some so small; Creatures that died frightened, oh the earth, it swallowed all. Now the giants, they have been woken from a slumber ten thousand years long And now the wind is howling with the wolves as it sings the forest song.
It's doleful, this writing of a thing, this "living life" blah blah, inspire the people, save the world, reh teh teh teh.
What do they see when they read what you write? What goes through their mind as they try to commit you to memory? Are you just another insane person, rambling on about how life isn't fair? Or perhaps a lovestruck idiot too naive to know what seems nice might not be right? A overgrown lost soul with wits running about, giving advice that seems boring? A gingerly word gyration specialist deluded enough to think to understand the universe is the only path there?
..what do you look like to them? What is their perception of you and how much do they understand? You pick pen and paper, blank screen and finger, begin to scribble, what seems like childish doodles, picking words apart and then reassembling them, not for you, of course But for them, you go on and on and try your best to have someone get exactly what you meant, Bearing in mind you'll know who did when you read the comments. You feel light headed when the words come oozing forth, a slight head ache when the spring stutters at the mouth and seizes and draws, Like a telly switching between clear, static and noiseless pause You want your heart out on the letters, your blood dousing them in gasoline fumes Maybe just enough that it can start a wildfire in their hearts when they read it You keep telling yourself "oh it's for me, I want peace, it's too much in my head, the screaming voices, it's soothing, don't you see?"
Isn't that half of the truth?
The other half, if told, will make you seem weak(which you are, by the way), will have you giving up the only bit of control you think you still possess, It's like a secret, you know, it belongs only to you and if divulged, well, you know what they say about secrets that are told...
You want the attention, want? No Need the attention.. Its the only thing left for you Life takes everything..it takes people, it takes the love, it takes even sweet death, oh darling death , and keeps it away from your reach like drugs kept so high up away from little kids So why not give you the attention? You've earned it, you deserve it, The words they write as they stumble over themselves trying to see how best they can define what you did You feel satisfaction, watching them try, And fail Cus' in reality, they are never so far from the truth as when they try to explain it Even you. You can't explain what you did. You think you can, and it seems you can, bit you can't still The more words you write, the more emotions you hide, Deeper in the dark regions of yourself, tucked away, so no one ever sees it, that pain You know they can't feel it, it's yours by right and sonehie still it's the only thing you'd give out freely if you could, But you can't. You see, this poetry or writing or whatever the bloody hell they call this damn shit you write It has rules, and one of it has to do with secrets "It hides more than it seems to reveal"
So while you delude yourself, and them, Into thinking you actually put your pain into words and fed it to them, you never really did. You just took placebos and pretended they were real, cus' the pain, the real pain, it can't be put into words.. You know that, they know that..bloody hell, everyone knows that
It can't be a coincidence that you relate more with the dead than the living. Hilarious as it seems, it is quite tedious for you; this act of breathing Death is familiar, more friendly, more...easy, more..what's the word?... peaceful After all, isn't that why you try to kill yourself every other time it presents itself? You want the attention, the love, the peace, the understanding of your words, of your pain And frankly, only the Lord above and Death can do that for you, And well, you know the Lord ain't up for pity parties and unrepentant sinners So Death, it is. After surging through all that fear, surviving all that turmoil, cheating death so many times you'd be the best rep for a game of Poker gainst the devil himself, And here you are, ...
Oh what a tangled web we weave When we make love a game of whom best to deceive When we lace the silk with sweet greed And reap our harvests off another's grief
You fling a strand at a target to reach And pray and hope that your prey don't see Webs are weapons for the creatures that creep And he that makes it must never sleep
It's a dance of spinning lies, you see A dance that each person learns to teach A step too far and to yours you'll stick And have the floor to receive you and your defeat.
Oh what a tangled web that we do weave Am I the whispering spider? Are you Varys? For when men's secrets are told to keep Seldom do they ever live in peace
I love you, darling, you love me too Now, tell me, which one of us plays the fool? He likes them blind, she likes them full But death comes slow for the one to lose
They weep and moan and their grief is true Oh, ask them if they knew him and they'd shout "we do". But beware of the red eyed friends and dark eyes of foes For no one be as dangerous as him with whom you eat from the same bowl
Now play me a tune of a man who died And I'll tell you a tale of avarice and cyanide Draw me portraits of the great ones who lived Watch me paint with blood the evils their hands use to create history
Let me tell you a story about fire. Fire is often depicted as a bright blaze or a glorious furnace. It's oft described as a hungry beast ravaging landscapes. That much is true about it, but fire's like a pet. It's art in hues of red and orange and yellow, and sometimes it's dressed in blue and white too. Fire licks, like some slobbering old dog that's hungry and all but toothless. There are souls in the fires, well, not exactly. Not in the fire I am talking about. It is more like there are voices in it. Sparks screaming out their lungs in a bright but short flash. Infernos wailing and raving, mad at everything in the world. I prefer the flickers— they don't scream, they sing to me, quiet mournful songs about how yellow girls dance with the orange lads until the winds come and they die. There's rhythm in their songs, a beat that thrums and hums its silent way into my mind. There are tales of glory in those flames, of power and love and everything passionate about the world. There's a song in the flames and I call it the arson's lullaby. I dance to it every time I sit by a flame or light a match.
Fire is insatiable when unleashed, spits ever so often at anything it picks and leaves dry slobber over everything it catches, like some barbaric predator with no soul, but it does have a soul. It drifts, from place to place, searching for something it cannot find, the very thing it destroys with its roaming scorch path. Fire tastes like smoke and charred paper, like fuming madness and scalding fury. My brother likes the fire, he plays with it every chance he gets, but I have tasted the fire and know of its revolting content. So I leave him to play and perhaps burn himself once or twice before I put the lights out. He should never have to be haunted by the harrowing songs the fire sings.
Fire burns brighter in the dark. You could never appreciate its beauty until it's the only thing alive in the darkness, well, the only thing alive and friendly in the darkness. It casts the darkest shadows to the depths and ofttimes, the brightest fires create the darkest shadows. Fire is light, and I never liked the light. I was born in the cold arms of the darkness and the light torments my eyes.
You should see fire burn a man. It makes them smell like roast pork, well it roasts then to the point it mimics alchemy and creates a delusion of edible danger, driving your senses to the point of no return. I have seen fires gulp children and adults alike and watched them yell for help and beg for mercy as it devours them with relish. Maybe those screams I hear in the fires are those of the people who died instead of me.
Alone. You know that word very well, don't you? Friendless and lost. Nothing could describe you more than that. Mute. You haven't used your tongue to utter even a word for weeks on end. Dead. To the world; love is now a concept lost on you. Lonely. Even the voices stay silent when you can't talk.
You don't even see any calls any more. It is almost as if you are dead to the world. Once again, only it's different this time. No more beautiful flowers to smell, all that there's left is your dark bedroom; your very own prison. You are a shadow of yourself, then again, there was never much to yourself to begin with. You stare at the fire till the coals turn to dust and crispy smoke, that hunger is ever present. You only ever get gassed when a song that hurts you is put on play, leaving you to swim through all that nostalgia. You rarely write, and now when you do, it's covered with prayers that someone likes it, talks about it. You don't even know where the call button is— you were never one to call anyone, at all. You stare at the blank screen till you doze off, and wake up to a device still on.
You've been reduced to begging for love. You now sit at the corners of the internet, lurking as always, watching how everyone else enjoys the world. You see clearly the pretence in their movements as they dance to the tunes. You crave that now, that's how desperate you've become, to want the ability to pretend as if everything is superbly fantastic.
You want someone to say a word, to stay with you, even as loneliness guides you back down to being sloppily clumsy and utterly useless. You remember more of every bad memory your lovely brain locked away to safeguard your already cracking mind. You lay awake all night, nocturnal and yet almost inactive, as if petrified by your incessant nightmares that plague your sleep ever since you were but a boy of three years. You want company and still hide behind this familiar weak boy's mask, not so much as even bringing out the good doctor or releasing Mr. Hyde back out into the wild. You have no zeal to tell your stories to anyone. There is no one to tell. There are no stories to tell. Where's your voice, boy? Where is it?
When I went to school, they told me tales of buried treasure, resting beneath the Earth and buried at the bottom of the sea. I was told of treasures that would make men swoon, and cause wars. I know only of two sorts of treasures: gold, silver, and jewels, And dust, spiders, and rotting leather.
Men dwell on the past, duel with the present and dream of the future, If only they'd trust not the stars but the pockets of black between; For the earth cries out for blood and for peace, none of which are ever pure.
The cosmos bears a heavy burden, yet it's but dust upon a body for the one above all, Knowledge has its days, but power is a friendly foe to the wise; Seek the truth with utmost desire, knowing that one will die at its feet, quivering.
Best you be prepared for when the winter comes, Metals, no matter how loved, are subjects to rust; The sun shines bright and lights the path, but soon it will be the dark night's turn.
I know of two forms of treasures: One by which the men of days gone and days present live by, treasures called women, riches and pleasures
You are the scarlett stolen from the dusk, Warm and bright, pure sunshine. You are the pale azure of the sky still trying To light the smile wrinkles beside your eyes. You are the aureate of the burning sun, Lighting up worlds, inducing growth. You are the pink of your mothers lips, Spreading smiles like autumn does leaves. You are the brown of your father's eyes, Stiff and fertile like earth, to inculcate new ideas. You are the orange of the belt of your wrist watch Which you still wear though you hated orange, But it became your favourite, The moment your sister gifted it to you. You are the emerald gleaming on the old Banyan tree, Of the leaves obstructing the harsh sun from reaching you; That have withstood more years than months you have lived. You are the pastel peach of your grandfather's blush, When his lips curved crescent While you told him how precious he is. You are the yellow of your friends tee shirt, While she was giggling, reuniting with her best friend after years. You are the grey of the clouds, right before they pour down, Heavy and trying to find as escape, it seems nothing would change; But you know it will, you hope it will, it would. You are the lilac of the tired sky, as tired are you, But still sneaking light, gleaming old dark roads. You are the darkening mazarin of the landscape at dawn, With swift zephyr humming songs long lost in the tinkle of the windchimes. You are the black of the night, spattered with shiny orbs, A collection of dreams written between the typography of the asterisms and constellations. You are the whole spectrum of colours, just scattered away Into places and people and pieces of the universe, Leaving the shade of you, marking places you have been; And just because you can't see it yourself, you wonder why it feels like monochrome everyday.
Where the last few leaves refuse to drop is where you will find the strength to hang on Where the wind blows so hard, that trees are uprooted.....is where you'll find the strength to stand tall and hold your ground Where the air is so brisk, the rain turns to ice before hitting the earth is where you will find the strength to endure Where the sky is so black, there seems to be no light anywhere, as to guide you that is where your intuition will kick in and lead you to a safe exit strategy Where the climb up that mountain seems to get taller with each step.......that is where you will find your strength to persevere, not only to make it to the top, but the strength to conquer anything that awaits you on the other side!
FUNNY⚫HAHA⚫FUNNY⚫LOL⚫FUNNY⚫HAHA⚫FUNNY⚫LOL ⚫What do you call the soft tissue between a sharks teeth? (Slow swimmers) ⚫What happens when mountains touch each other? (Nothing) ⚫What do you call a vegan with diarrhea? (A smoothie maker) Ewww! Gross! ⚫Need cheering up? (Start a fight with someone that has hiccoughs!) ⚫What do you get when you breed a cow and a shark? (Don't know, but I don't want to milk it) ⚫I saw a poor old lady fall and hurt herself(must have been poor cause I only found $3 in her bag) ⚫Do I lose when a police officer says, "papers", and I say scissors? ⚫Do you know this joke where all the idiots say no? (No) ⚫Living with a woman is a lot like farting!(push too hard and you'll wish you hadn't) ⚫Why didn't the phone break when dropped on concrete floor? ( It was on airplane mode)
What swims and starts with a "t"? (Two ducks) Just because nobody complains, (doesn't mean all parachutes are perfect) Gambling addiction hotlines would do so much better, (if every 5th caller was a winner) Where there is a will, (there is a relative) When I saw the dog chasing it's tail, I thought, "dogs are easily amused" (the I realized I was watching the dog chase it's tail) I like to hold hands when at the movie theatre, (but it kind of freaks strangers out) I told my wife I traded our bed out for a trampoline, (she hit the roof) ⚫ Velcro--------what a rip off!!!!!⚫
HAVE ⚫AWONDERFUL⚫THURSDAY⚫ DONT ⚫FORGET⚫TO⚫SMILE⚫AND⚫LAUGH❗
We thought today would be a better day but all of the storm clouds came to stay We need the sunshine and a bright smile to chase the blues and stay around awhile The rose will open to the morning sun then dark clouds blow in and it's all undone There are many rose buds hoping to bloom but the sky is black, a heavy feeling of gloom When all hope is lost, and you are at the end the clouds will clear with a message to send Though some days are dark, and no sun is out tomorrow's forecast, no rain, mostly sunny no doubt!
A BALLAD OF ME : A poet is a person who pours light into the world, From the darkness of her own soul. It's so dark in here and I Can see everything so clearly, except what's right in front of me, Can count 2 10 everything that's wrong with me, Can count precisely anything but my blessings, Can state correctly anything but my feelings, Can share freely everything but my curses, Can walk away from castles yet carry the bricks inside my heart, Can burn old bridges yet return to resuscitate the ashes, Can be right yet oh so wrong. Pain lives here and I... Can't see the forest because of the trees, Can't see heaven because of the firmament, Can't see God because of the sun, Can't leave hell because I am burned, Can't love you half the way that I write you, Can't see the sky cause it's covered with paper, Can't feel the rain cause I'm drowning in ink, Can't leave you behind cause you've walked away, Can't walk away because the road is smooth, Can't not forgive you, Can't ever forget you, Can't say goodbye to your ghost, Can't say goodbye because you keep saying hello, Can't lose what was never mine, Can't stop thinking about things that never happened, Can't end this nostalgia for a place that was never home, Can't see the carbon because of the diamond, Can't see the beauty because of the face, Can't see your eyes because of your soul, Can't save my soul because of my body, Can't find the words to write my own salvation, Can't seem to find what was never lost, Can't see the meaning because of the words, Can't hear the thunder because of the clap, Can't hear the music because of the sound. It's so lonely in here and I Should stop by later right in front of me, Should say I'm sorry to this broken girl, Should say your moon shines brighter than the stars, Should say you are enough, just the way you are, Should say I love you especially when I can't love you, Should fold this poem into her front pocket.
MONSTERS : You keep going to that bridge I never thought I'd be jealous of a river Life and death are one breath away Love and loss are two waves away Hope and despair are two halves of the same moon You left your windows down again For the rain to come rushing in And carry you back to anywhere With a river that makes you feel at heart Holding your face in my hands My heart melts in your universe You're my centre, you're my all Nothing else could stop this fall No one else can still this storm You keep going back to that bridge I never thought I'd be a river soon But you're the ocean I run into Time and time again You're my fate and you're my end So I leave my windows open now For your tears to come rushing in For your fears to drown inside me Everything you can't leave behind And all the ghosts that haunt you And all the water under your bridge And all the stains that make you human And all the things I cannot see That hurt you so much That make you lost for words I welcome them into my world Walk in with your dirty shoes Take the world off your shoulder Lay it gently upon mine I wrote you poems for the days When you'll need a pair of unbroken wings To visit the stars from whence you came And I sing you songs to pacify your dancing demons I'll dance with you in your storm I'll be your shelter This is the only promise I can make It is for you that I was made It is for us that I won't break But tonight When I ran out of wood to keep the fire Everything was still Even silence was quiet No rain rushed in No wind rustled on our doors I ran down to your bridge Like a poem in search of her poet My knees crumbled as I held my face in my wet hands As I once had held yours in my trembling hands And in one crescentic moment I screamed and shattered silence In one last symphony I went numb as my heart fell in pieces Into a river that was you.
MIRROR MIRROR : "What do you see when you look in the mirror?" That's got to be one of the most generic question ever asked. More specific may be: "What don't you see?" As long as you live, you may never actually look yourself in the eye without a mirror or some sort of reflective object in front of you. But you can see yourself through the eyes of people and judge yourself through their minds. And you would be wrong. When you love yourself, no one can care for you like you will. When you hate yourself, no one can beat you up like you do. We all do things that we are not proud of, we've all written stories we don't want attached to our name. The trick to living is in not defining you by your mistakes. The trick to remaining alive is by not carving out sculptures of your flaws. The little things make the happiest lives - like a smile, like a memory, like chocolate, like coffee, like a text message, like a hug, like family, like a good friend. Conversely, the little things also make the saddest lives - like a prayer unanswered, like hope deferred, like loneliness, like not belonging, like silence, like burnt bagel. The trick is in finding one person (not necessarily "the one") whose eyes see you in ways your mirror never could. Who thinks you are still beautiful even when you are broken on the floor. Who loves you most on the days you cannot love yourself. What do you see when you stand in front of you? Your curves, your hair, your success, or your beauty? Your flaws, your loss, your pain, or your ugly? Until you begin to see in your eyes, The people who define you as love, because they have felt a fraction of what's inside you, because you held them together when they were falling apart, because your eyes saw them in ways their mirrors never could, because you held them up even when it kept you down, because you loved them most on the days they could not love themselves. Then you haven't begun to live, no, you haven't begun to love. Not everyone gets the one, but everybody can be that one to somebody else. And if you are that one, staring one day at your rear view mirror, you will see a silent smile... you will feel a private kind of happiness.