I'm so afraid of you now
Depressed by my own fears
And the tears that urge away
Into the darkness you make in me
There was trust and passion once
Kept in the jewel box of my heart
Keyless, in my pure trust
You'd let the dark alone
Things have changed like a dial
Fading certainty with the light
That once showed me of your true self
Shadowed against the night
Too afraid to let you know
Of the pain you sketch inside of me
I fall soulless, bruised, exposed
Seeking the remnants of your truth
Alone and so afraid of you
Ruined in the violence of such grief
A miasma of betrayal cries
A pitying whisper into the abyss
This miraculous journey we call life,
has many strands braided together,
never forget what is expected from
the travelling monk, walking in front,
who'll break his walk to play with
stray street pups, eat, drink and sup
with men and women, of many temperaments,
who'd invite him to sit with them, even not knowing
who he is, or what mission moves him
through these dusty roads. There is something
that makes everyone not take eyes off him,
they'd say that, when he goes back on his way.
On the waves of emotions, he partake, he moves
like a paper boat navigated, by the speed
it all create, yet unaffected, except the empathy he keeps in his heart.
Hearing stories of this pilgrim in rapt attention
creating worlds fantastic inside,
learning things one never imagined before,
he travels with the wandering monk in sight.
What is more wondrous, once he thought
than seeing one's starry eyed lover's excitement,
showing a jewel she picked
from the riverbed of her short life
in a blessed moment.
She put it adoringly in to his mind,
a gleaming ornament that 'd adorn him
though time would change that too.
Every thing experienced in this journey
makes one, the words of the monk prompt to act
and see the aftermath, take in the taste,
be it sweet or bitter or both,
odors and smells, the feel of things
a complex web, the map of inner life.
Never should one fail, to lend ears
to the tales of wandering monk
he is wisdom's child, patience solidified,
every tale has its color, smell and texture,
nature spoke, he experienced,
ages in muted tones speak
to him in the voice of the wandering monk
that's a sweet smile, angel kiss.
and im so sad to have to say-
that you should learn to hide it
there's not a single person who can manage to miss
that your veins run with bliss
and that you are a southern sweet tea flower girl
that you are a walking Sunday.
That your eyes sparkle like dust-mites floating on a shaft of sunlight.
and you see, i don't know a single person
who doesn't want to know you.
you are too good for this world.
there's people i don't want you to meet
some days.. that includes me.
you apologize to those who step on your feet
you are innocent
and i can see sometimes
that your lapis lazuli eyes
will momentarily darken
to the jewel like shade of the jaded
and god, i want to protect you
from every negative thing.
i could not live to see your flower wilt
because you are laughter and pick-nicks
light spring rains
and little tree frogs.
you are Easter grass
and the clean smell of lemonade.
steady angel kiss.
i hope the world wont make you change.
Let me tell you a story
Of a girl not many people knew.
Come, sit down, and listen.
I wouldn't want you to miss this.
Once upon a time,
Because that's how all great stories go,
There was a girl.
Just like you and just like me.
She wasn't a glimmering jewel,
But more like a diamond in the rough.
She was quite and didn't dare to speak a word.
All she ever seem to do was hide
Behind her dark curtain of hair
Where no one else could see her.
No one ever really understood her,
But no one ever got to know her
She was more than just that though.
Not that anyone would ever know
Because then came along the whispers.
Everywhere she walked she could hear them.
She did her best to block them out.
Though, that didn't always work.
After the whispers came the insults.
They were thrown around on a daily basis.
Sometimes they left her speechless.
Sometimes they made her sad.
Sometimes she didn't know
What they made her feel.
She tried, tried, and tried to change herself,
But that just made her tired.
She decided just to put up a wall.
Years after the whispers first started,
She felt herself growing weary.
Tired of trying, and tired of crying.
It seemed like she didn't have the answers to anything.
Her parents started noticing her behavior,
But they didn't know what to do.
How could they know what everyday was like?
Then came the next dreadful day,
The insults, whispers, and stares included
Were harsher compared to the days before.
She walked home alone in the rain that day.
Her cheeks were stained with her tears,
But the tears never did stop ending.
When she got home, she was welcomed with silence
No one was there for her to talk to.
No one was ever there for her to talk to.
She went to her room and made sure the door was locked.
Her decision was made, she was ready to go.
It only took a minute to meet her sweet, dark abyss.
The day after no whispers were found.
Silence was everywhere that day
In the halls, the classroom, and the buses.
Every student was filled with guilt,
Especially when looking at her heart-broken parents.
They didn't think she would go this far.
Moral of the story, since there always is one,
Be kind to all those who you are surrounded by
Because you'll never know who the whispers will go after next.
For all you know it could be you.
And you too will be gone before your time.
Fashion this as liquor to give spirit to a song in write.
Seen seldom to weigh words at play in search,
sewn expensive for time spent in trust and recite.
Penciling not for profit so rhythmic this may show.
Find in the presence to open and reflect our woes.
Only prescription for uncommon those in write.
A same those who compose.
This on display is the compromise of sheltered dreams ~
and the soul, of rhythm in gentle prose.
This is the allure of the jewel of life.
Sent as promise a same a wish.
Stem those genes and make heavy this vision ~
and prayers in might. These are our rays made ink,
to weigh the pressures of waves constant in cycle,
to detract from nature’s Heavenly sight.
Lost we shall dream and ever so patiently grow old ~
but in heart live bold.
Rugs were in Persia mathematically correct ~
and with an Indian craft colorful, Heaven sent.
Only captured in a metaphor this day,
so men do master, so simple this way.
Simple this as to measure the years past,
shudder away tears, for the river purifies ~
our passions commandeered.
So culture our gardens to prosper and replenish,
in the green untamed, and natural in wonder, behold.
Today we thimble a sew for tomorrow,
for our craft is spared only to simpleness of editing,
not journeyed journals to an ever-changing composition.
Perhaps unfamiliar this vest, this life.
Sample the living, in books that inspire.
Dismal I think the desire to purify a pen in this heavy practice,
a dance an art. Time lends a flavor, marinating appealing to a fashion so write.
Always calm to prolonged righteous reason,
modern making, yet captured still as storytelling.
Uncommon to cues, but refreshing at leisure,
is now a computer who makes simple what once was wasted time.
Measures made in this art are laborious,
the passion is for the pen, reel it in as your tool,
rations will in turn ~ give as a well to nature and sow,
the seed of the write.
Refinement ~ un-forsaken, notes of detail,
must reinvent and inscribe in ink.
The bank of intuition lay tender as our diction.
Replenish in the soil of our Native grounds ~
to seed another tool, the luxury of our lingo.
For inspirations may befriend or become uncharted ~
if left in the cold. Sold but without a surrender to all integrity,
we will call for many souls to ship and receive what Forefathers intended.
In over our heads, over watering our behaviors, half unknowingly over diluting our mental treasures, is this the liquor of life,
all too fancy in measure but it was the tea of rebellion ~
and so I toast ~ to a drink tonight.
Inherent as memories of a generation now surely within time,
we will fill the promise within crafted lines, and file away ~
many promises ~ many revisions many times.
In spoil we shall not surrender our bounty of honesty and wisdom,
so gray in years we mend.
Dent our self-serving self ~ respect,
make and justify the wheel in role common.
Like a beard in keep, intention is relevant.
Surely women refine makeup as to show beauty in character.
Thus what we intend to refine is an endeavor to unwrinkled ~
and celebrate the qualities of growing old.
Time is of new defining, for the times are naturally at all times ~
in ritual of change.
Memories to grace the gift of sight ~
are the shades to carry our reflections away.
One, who trusts and so cares, lay in the daydream of light.
In a wish sent salient, reference to eyes unveiled,
patiently as a seed shall ripen, the flavors of life ~
will flower in springs day.
We hanger thus shelter, the rags made clothes,
best when leather to weather firm and tight.
Regift the promise, to harness the wind ~
and make words potent as those before did without regret.
Today in general we lean and conform on the fundamentals,
too disciplined, mirror of stale literature.
Similar to wood varnished but without the stains of life.
First revision is not for giving, only what is taken, luxury of time.
Color your copies of the wood you talk in and pencil in your pressures ~
to relieve the pain, simple ~ ness and cold feet lay sold,
as buttered bread to fill.
But imperfect, so forthcoming, wills the literature of today ~
finding promise in ceremony by charting drafts and revisions ~
to send in message to those young in read.
This voyage is regretfully gentle as our host made monumental any verse,
so breathe within the soul and hearts of men, to find new styles to milk the mind of reason.
Leafs from the tree of intuition ~ censure the picture,
sell in the filter of Freedoms fight, not first drafts ready when write.
Battered but purely by pace and meager beginnings,
the wave of procurement in the arts of linguistics will saddle ~
and shelter the idea profound.
Don’t toss away the raisin of a pen in hand,
for we lean to easily in bits and bytes.
Promise of Heaven’s pennies falling in rhythm will sing tonight.
Majestic in find, common in ground, gift a find, in leisure, in time.
Gather they guard and uphold the greater good, not to entertain but inspire.
Just as ones soul is when right.
Humbled in behaviors so chips in clever may fall.
But poker face we have become,
once centered in earnest of essays in rent,
now owners of ideas embellished ~ in verse ~
our native treasures.
Second, we charter the raft of ideas in mend,
to conceive works so aspiring as the poets and linguists of historic claim.
So riddled ~ so mastered.
Surely a new discontent shall offer, in a pebble of examples met,
and with practice and structure our youth will pen.
Demand must be patient, for procurement in the arts of linguistics ~
will nurture and mother our future Leaders to a discipline in their own right.
Never forget the days of past generations for they marveled in the arts ~
and in rain it falls in our hands ~ to luster and defend.
Poetics are too political if not in share.
Protection of this is how Freedom was rung.
The hungry will maintain its resolve and rightfully so.
Riddled as sow ~ these lentils, this meal, these feathers,
this ink shall fuel the fire.
A dance in the pillows of night shall brush ~
the painting in the Autumn of ones days.
Flaccid in so many ways.
Glorified by the shadows of protection,
but only one day is stored for this intention.
Freedom is in the work engraved beside it, within it,
sharing we celebrate it, and our Brave provide it.
Celebration comes by way of duty and hard work,
and is rises high and early in the dawn.
Yes, on the Fourth Day of July.
Food and pleasures are gifts for price paid by our Soldiers ~
and Agencies who protect and defend our freedom and intelligence,
and calmly watch over it as we carry along.
All under the calm watch of Gods umbrella.
Future dreams are blessed a same, for all under this Flag ~
by notion alone, seam and dress and hence sail with solemn truth.
Trusting the winds of reason to keep us Forever Free ~
and on course to replenish the soil, for those young in years.
Students in the day dream of life are in the send ~
to allow their pen to charter this peaceful but daunting Nation ~
to one of peace and prosperity.
Willingly and calm the Lion stares afar from American shores,
Democratic in nature and always reinventing in this idea we call ~
the American Dream.
You are that friend I feel
as if I can never fully discover
the one who doesn't seem to talk much
the one who's sweet and warm when you get to know them
and chilly when they don't like you
anger is harbored
so I never see it
I see a different face
than they who stand beside me
but this is as real as the other facets
and the facets, when combined, create a jewel
the jewel was not borne of dust and stone
but found to be clear and pristine
this jewel has its faults
this jewel has its faults and those add to its shine
this jewel has its strengths
this jewel has its strengths and those make it what it is
a lifetime on the vine
Forming, filling with desire
Juice brewed in the Seraphim's Cauldron
Whose taste is yet unknown
Its foreign scent of dark cinnamon and salty caramels hang heavy in the air - thick
The season of the blossomed jewel comes, emerging
as a lunar eclipse sailing silent, darkly, ships in the night
hidden from all mortal gaze, except the most discerning eye,
guiding the fortuitous thumb -
meeting the firmly placed finger, to deliver sweetness from the branch to the welcoming tongue,
as the handsome praise of the berry's thorough flavor will reach far into the heights of eternal sensations, soaring beyond planetary lust,
prompting us to fathom the size of the possible
I locked myself away again
hid in a form of a closet
bunched between the jackets
and moth eaten dresses
I closed myself in a drawer
between the trinkets
and stale kerchiefs
a tresure hunter of sorts
will sift through the junk
to find the broken
stained little girl
who was once able to look in a mirror
and not see every inch of fat
every layer of skin
polish up the jewel to my heart
don't sell it though sweetie
this ruby gets cracked with
the slightest pressure
a jewel of a lake, hanging
from a rough gold chain of stars
summer air and midnight sounds
quiet water, echoing
loud beneath the old wood
bare feet touching sand, pockets
filled with pebbles
i sat down
and i felt my heartbeat
i opened my eyes to grey
to rain, to fog, to half past autumn
soggy leaves on the cracked cement
and the lake and stars only a lament
playing in my ears, fondly
and i thought i would be still
i thought i would be calm
empty, sitting here
among dead trees
but i looked to my right
a familiar face
and i felt my heartbeat
missing summer less and less
Day and night vie for each other
now, but the darker is winning;
The moon mourns in her ruddy veil:
tonight, the garden's wet by tears.
Incredible, the attraction,
of carbon for carbon.
Even more, the attraction
of carbon for gold.
In the wild, they rarely bond.
But in man, inseparable.
Carbon and mammon: be not yoked,
says the jewel diamond of our race.
Who cares? The cross,
an adornment nice.
Mammon in mud? Silicon
too, says the IT guy.
Fullerenes in the sky: on this
Guy Fawkes night, sparks truly fly.
Carbon will kill for gold.
This the oldest maxim of old.
Incredible connections emerged once I started mining this subject: Diamond is a form of carbon...so too is fullerene: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fullerene (pun on 'like a diamond in the sky')