Will I be damned because of my Lust..
The way the world see it they like whats the fuss..
Through the grace of God I kicked the porn but there's residue and dust..
The love for my wife but lust births a visual rush..
That flow through my optics.
My wife is the only option
A level of self control so I don't touch..
Like thoughts aren't adultery
Praying that these women don't approach me..
Can't Cross the line can't get called for encroaching
My curse is this lust.
My wife feel that I don't love her the same..
Her heart show disgust
Because of the change in her frame..she thinks my eyes show disgust..
My carnal film replays images .
Fully naked women..
Fooled myself into believing that it was practice or similar to a scrimmage..
God open my eyes to the realities of my addiction..
As u hear these words can you feel my conviction
Can u see my transparency..
These words spray clear like windex..
The view of the truth is damaging..
But God heals wounds miracle moves on tragedy..
This world causes battles in the heart..
Blood, Sweat and tears to stay faithful to wife and God
Lust my Battle scar
The air is damp and fresh,
the scent of new rain perfumes all that surrounds me
and thin mist lingers in the atmosphere.
It caresses my face when I walk through it's path,
a simple, happy path,
like moth's wings on silk, and it no longer stings.
A large oak tree stands tall and mighty, a magnificent display of solidarity -
but not imposing.
It is kind and bare and humble,
and I see that we are both stripped in some way, raw and defrocked.
I touch the last trace of green it possesses,
the last bit of hope and the last reminder that things come back
and that things move forward,
soft moss under the pads of my fingertips, soaked and sponge like,
and just there - clean and true.
I turn up my collar against the wind and tighten the wrap of my coat around me,
still clinging,
but at least I'm shielding myself from the cold.
I'm still allowed to cling just a little, I think. Sometimes we need to cling -
to help us let go.
And anyway, I know that change has arrived at last, no matter how small it is,
because although the only embrace I receive here, aside from the fabric of my coat, is the bitter cold,
I am not bitter.
And this chill does nothing but bring peace,
and somehow warm my heart this time instead of freezing it.
A ruby under the wet russet leaves
is what I see through the remnants of the rain.
Peel away the outer layers so that I can remember what is beautiful.
These colours do not look like blood anymore;
they're a sunset: fading but with a guaranteed return.
Beginnings, endings, departures and returns -
that is an existence.
But a life
is when we look back with both longing and acceptance,
to never forget but never dwell too long
on what has been.
Sweetness, bitterness, sourness:
a weary traveler making his way along a path
with Autumn meadow on one side: tranquility and rest,
and Autumn meadow on the other: Summer is ended and so are you.
I know which side I'm ready to seek now.
For what is taken in Autumn,
is also returned.
And the evidence is in your being on this side of the path with me.
I know - because I see the good things now.
I see only the beautiful colours and the chestnuts and the mercifully short days.
Yes. This Autumn will be different.
How can I reach the unreachable..
teach the unteachable who's comprehension is unbelieveable
But the fact is unbelief is more than lack of knowledge..
Cause the truth is even Satan knows who God is..
Is it blindness...
truth on deaf ears..
the embracing of silence..
should there be surpises ..
when behind your eyelids enter a random act of violence..
A vision of darkness ..there's no light that why the pupils dilate the use of the iris..
But when use to darkness and the lights hits one close their eyelids..
I.e. Christ the truth the way the light..
Being unsaved is like living in the womb..
Darkness equivalent to that of a tomb..
Flashes of light is like labor contractions..
The unknown conviction hinting..
Considered a distraction..
Pushed out now watch the eyes reaction..
To the light cause from darkness there's a detachment..
If given a chance a adjustment happens..
An embracement of the light..
A rebirth Christ in action.
How can i reach the unreachable..teach the unteachable ..
With a script the director unknown Its more than the shout of action..
Living life like a movie unaware that the villains not acting..
Now could u imagine..
A movie set full of madness..
All the cast dead like really dead from a stabbing..
No equalizer the villain the only one left standing..
You may say excuse me..
Life is not a movie.
Truly
But a witness not performing there duty..is bystander..
No innocence exist...
No bliss in ignorance...
.Cause we all birth into sin.
So many questions with wrong answers given like the truth don't exist....
How can I reach the unreachable
teach the unteachable
who I tell to this body of Christ they should enlist
But when a pass is given and the shot is missed..
It negates the assist..
A reason for the lost of the game..
The thought of a lost soul has me pissed..
I'm the point guard I help the scorer sustain..
Chris Paul with rock which is the gospel..
Passing the truth like Paul the apostle ..
Too many people out for a win like Christ didn't settle the score...
Adam severed the relationship but Christ rebuilt the rapport...
I am trying to reach and teach but there's no trust any more...
Pointing u in the direction of excepting the Lord..,
Embrace the word of God that double edge sword..
Them cuts is conviction..
The sword swinging is What it means to be a witness..
Led by the spirit A Christian
Yes we are made in Gods image..
Trying to reach every soul because the wins and losses count..
Life is not a scrimmage..
How can one soul have a blemish..
Only dirt that can touch the soul is the dirty hands of sinning..
How can I reach the unreachable teach the unteachable..Who mistakes knowledge for ignorance...
And reject truth because arrogance..
I compose each word with the most careful pen stroke
Ensuring you truly grasp the feeling I wish to invoke
My words must reach you soul or this ink is in vain
Let my written voice sink in like a needle to the vein
I need for you to receive the message that I wish to convey
So read within these pages what my lips will never say
I will write and you shall see what lies within my soul
For my work to reach within yours is my ultimate goal
My balcony looks into the building next door
Which was at one time an architectural wonder
Home to a family, maybe
Or a solitary man
With too much money to buy happiness
Now its roof caves inward
And the neglect it has felt through the years is apparent in the
Ivy crawling up its walls
Only the moon and the cool breeze keep me company
It's the time of night when
The crowd of young people
Who drink away their troubles many a mundane night
Have been tucked away in their final destinations
And the city sleeps
Silence
Fills my ears
And serenity
Fills my mind
I close my eyes
Breathe in the salty air floating
Pass me on its way from the sea
It's on quiet nights like these
I know
I am utterly
Insignificant
The beginning was
over before the start…
It was daunting how she could read
my reflection, in the still waters,
like the book about the stormy seas of my mind.
It is said that “still waters run deep”
Is my soul’s estuary a shallow and barren desert?
With too many glaring imperfections ?
Have the depths of my spirit
reached for the lighted surface
only to see hope evaporate into thin air?
Wanting to feel understood
is a reflection of my heart
and yet I feel the need to harbor,
undiscoverable traits in my cage of solitude...
Am I, one heart only lying to my mind?
As if I were not whole?
Four separated distinct parts…
These hands adorn the quill of
the head, the heart, body and soul...
Without synergy,
am I only an illusion of my own wholeness?
After carefully considering
my reflections in the mirror of her eyes,
a breathless panic fell like a dark fog,
blocking her vision into the book of my mind.
Backed up against the corner wall,
I felt like running as my biggest fears manifest
in the realization that our final moment had come...
If… “Am I ? ” ... is the question?
"Four separated, in-congruent pieces is the answer"…
I’ve been fooling myself all along
Walking
away seemed better
than running…
Crawling away
on my hands and knees
just seems unfair.…
© Harlon Rivers
The music shot into her eardrum like a trance-inducing drug, each bang of the drum, each rhythmic flow, each string of the guitar would slowly take her under. Under hypnosis.
The power of the beat was so intense, that it lifted her chin and shoved her into the floor of dance. There, was where she found herself in a state of uncontrolled and vigorous rhythmic movement. The music had somewhat possessed her limbs as though they had a mind of their own. Her routine was calculated and her foot movement, unique.
She, all at once, knew and knew not what she was doing. As her surroundings stood marvelled in awe, she was alone. Her hips shaking and bouncing as though a chemical mixture was being synthesised deep within her, a mixture that was yet to explode. Explode with power so great, it would possess others in her 'roundings. Surroundings that would, in time faster than inhalation, be under the same knife. With movements and sways that embodied and humanised the worship of music.
Rhythm is their God, the controller of beings. Almost as if dance is the ritual of prayer, and the club, a mosque or sacred ground.
Like rhythm is the favoured slave-driver. Like rhythm is the unfeared tyrant. Like rhythm is what brings the animalistic spirit within us all back to life after daylight and spiritual rest. Like rhythm is the pair of unspoken arms that push them, its subjects, over the precipise and into the river of flow. And under The Rhythm's spell, they will move, they will love it.
I don't want to run
I don't want to shoot
I don't want to run from the police
I don't want to loot
I don't want a gangster's life
I don't want to have to look over my shoulder at night
Growing up in the big city
Born of a family in the dirt
Never much money to anybody
But it seems none of my cousins really learned
But I'm not like them, I'm not about that
I never was keen of violence
Always hated hate and loved love
Never got how they all missed this
Never understood how they could want that kind of life
Because I'd be a bum on the street
Begging for a penny or two
Before I was to go out and hurt someone who didn't deserve it
Or trick someone into thinking something false
I don't like to deceive, I hate it
But do many people think it's right
Crime doesn't pay, you can't win
There's nothing to a life of sin
At the end if the day you're left with shit
Your hearts turned to an empty black pit
My purple sunrise is deeper than yours
I dream in the cracks you cover with clay
the black in my pupils holds in more light
but your bleached white walls lead to my decay.
My grass is thicker,
my blue is stronger
when I eat from the fruit there's more teeth in my bite.
Can you taste the juice?
Feel it dribble down your shirt?
That's the stream in my forest
by my carpet of dirt.
It's written in ink
smeared, still legible
that I hold a soul within these bars of bone
light and soft like cooling butter
It's fierce, and it sings, and doesn't understand
the reasons for pain in this drying, Eden-land.
Written as a wedding gift for two dear friends, Gregg and Lisa.
This is a love poem.
This is a clashing skylines over mountain tops love poem.
This is a desert wind kicking dust clouds off of the earthen floor like time love poem.
It's a phoenix rising from the ashes again and again, smoothing every rough edge to make them beautiful, burning faults like paper lanterns love poem.
It's giant monument cascading down in a rainstorm of embers as the lone giant tumbles to the earth in a offering of solidarity.
This is a love poem.
It's wind and water and trees bowing limbs in genuflect out of respect for the hearts combined.
It's wild and fierce, like great beasts and flashing storms that match the primal song of the passion of two souls aligning.
It's hanging by a single chord from the tallest of ancient brothers. It's laughter echoing off of canyon walls and echoed back like majesty.
This is a love poem.
This is an urban jungle alive with life and color love poem.
This is a chain link fence and beat pounding to vibrate two heart strings into a single rhythm, striking a beautiful chord love poem.
This poem is spinning lights and a body of hundreds. Legion, moving as one, rich with the scent of joy and effort.
It's late nights and early mornings, adorned in affection and whispers. It's music and dance and holding tight and holding on.
This is a love poem.
This is a timeless love moving at the speed of thought, pushing clocks to keep pace in futility love poem.
This is a hand touching skin, like ink touching paper to record the poems of your past, present, and future, to only be recited with a kiss love poem.
It's a forever has too few letters for how long this love has been destined and how long it will continue on love poem.
This poem is learning the other like morning prayer. It's tasting each goodnight kiss like Eucharist.
This poem is sound and fury and steadfast through every storm and letting the wind of your whirling dance fill the sails of the wooden ship you build together.
This poem is aging. Building monoliths of your past. Tearing them down and using the stones to build the cobbled path of your future. It's a new laugh. An innocent laugh. Fresh eyes glimpsing a future made from the hearts of two that will carry the love forward so that it can remain forever a wave giving back to the shore. Rich. Tidal. Steady.
This is a love poem.
This is a wrinkles and cracks forming like cuneiform. Making the sculpture more beautiful with time love poem. A lines spreading out across the cover of the book, wrinkled to resemble a road map of the winding path of the journey of two, circling one and other like a binary star. Bright and radiant.
It's a patina heart. Showing through with red and blue. Lines lit by fire that warms aching bones on even the coldest nights of our minds.
This is a love poem.
This is a celebration.
This is a gathering of witnesses who checked their wings at the door, that we may stand below and watch the dance above. Quaking parishioners glimpsing the face of God and beauty. Jaws agape eyes shining with tears like morning dew.
This is a love poem trying in vain to describe the beauty of soul mates finding their way back home. For sometimes home is not a destination, but a person.
This is a love poem.
This is a poem about love.
