Internal poetry while doing
Yoga.
I don't mean practicing
Yoga. I mean doing it.
Writing, because although
Yoga
Calmed my racing thoughts
And high electromagnetic frequency,
Additional
Judgmental,
Highly observant,
Rather foreign thoughts
Are returning.

The pirates pillaging
Sanity within
Are no match for the
Ancient Indian
And pre-Indian
Yoga and poetry.
In this day and age,
Yoga is heraled
For the stylish, revealing pants
Used for practicing.
As well as the many classes that reek of ego.

Poetry, on the other hand,
Has more or less gone obsolete.
They killed all the poets.

They have become replaced
By social media
Featuring those unsocialized with writing.
Now, when I need to hear the wisdom
Of a guiding angel,
All I hear
Is the pathetic language
Of the less fortunate in poetic freethought.
These discombobulated ghosts
Haunt me
When I hear far too many
Voices
And need stillness to compensate my illness.

These voices of the day, I fear,
Manipulate me in most unpleasant ways.
And being thinker, as I am,
Drawing conclusion and meaning
From everything I can,
A blessing and a curse --
Which, then again, are blessings nonetheless --
I cannot help but wonder
If this is part of a plan.

Orwell wrote of so not fifty years ago.
The language now constantly spoken,
As well as read,
As well as written,
Dumbing us down.
Losing touch with words of wisdom
In most trying of times.
This is what happens when

You **** off
All the poets.

We enter this world alone.
We leave alone, only bones.
During our stay, we call it home.
The only home we've ever known.
And we will leave, with tired feet,
All we are that we perceive,
Whom we have loved, what we have known,
Back into the deck it shall go.
Everything during our mortal stay,
We must leave here, outside of the grave.
We assume what we consume
Can build us comfortable rooms,
But the most scenic of views,
Are priceless and cannot be used,
Only borrowed from Nature's Hearth.
A gift to preserve - the gift of Earth.
Keep her clean, do her well.
Be part of the solution, in her you shall dwell,
And if you bare children to also know Mother,
Give them, too, knowledge of how to love her.

I'm one of the ones you call insane,
Because I can't play along with this rigged game.
The odds are stacked, and not in our favor,
But instead for the Bankers with money, they create more.
I look and I see the strife all around,
And know the potential for human life has no bounds.
And when I make a sound,
It's like the words are all drowned,
Or at least lost at sea.
Message in a Bottle from Humanity.
A Human who knows the scale of her insignificance -
While knowing the magnitude of what is at risk -
The disposal of this awesome gift.

I'm one of the ones you call insane,
Because I can't play along with this rigged game.
I know my role, and I know how the story goes.
I should vote in vain and be told my Heroes.
But no, I dance to my own rhythm,
I tell myself it's internally driven,
To improve myself, and the world around,
The world at large, and earthworms in the ground.
So I rejected my spoon-fed medicine,
Of this culture, man-made incentives,
Long before you inject me with antipsychotics.
Internally, Mentally, I chant the mantra of "Stop This."

It can drive a person insane,
Pretending to play this rigged game.

My thoughts are chemicals.
I am made of recycled cells
That I ingest, I take in what's best
For optimal health, active or at rest.

My DNA as mysterious as the Cosmos,
The Cosmos less of a mystery than Ocean floors.
I come from the Ocean, an awesome notion,
A family with all others, every Thing is a cousin.

My ancestors all made it to reproduction.
I am assembled, through history, through selection.
My traits have been crafted, positively reacted.
Nurtured by Nature, genes that have lasted.

I am made from the stars,
Drink water that passed through dinosaurs.
I experience Life, though filled with a bounty of strife,
Through eyes of a Human, intelligence my paradise.

And though my species feels more advanced
And in control of a world we craft with our own hands,
We are not self-efficient, resources increasingly deficient,
A virus to be easily shaken, in which the planet would not be missing.

I have a fleeting gift,
Amidst the destruction that here lives,
And that is my consciousness,
No fear of abyss, no promise of bliss,

But in my spark of a lifetime,
Seemingly insignificant, and that's fine,
I have inside endless thoughts with my mind,
No need of afterlife with a gift so divine.

Your silence climbs like vines,
I hardly notice it binds,
Past my grounded thighs,
Twisting all up my spine,
My heart's furnace, it shall find,
And attempt to smother it alive.
I know we're on year nine,
And you've always been on my mind,
But now there comes a time -
That the Sunshine, I just can't find,
Your contempt for me is all that you remind,
The only time you direct your energy towards mine.

I can stand tall on my own.

Through Winter, I did not wither,
From my keeper, no compassionate water delivered -
The blood from within my veins of river,
From my own flourishings, is where I beat the shiver.
Let it be known:
Nourishment & Encouragement
Is what you couldn't give her.
What she found instead:
Her inner self is her giver.