Not eating, drinking, or smoking for the Will of God.
These mortal morsles seem so significant now - energy to do things.
Dry, sticky mouth.
Slight ache in the belly.
Unfulfilled desire of the lungs.
It seems my reflection is dependent on these and not my soul.
240 million malnurished children.
2% of the world is homeless.
18 million in prisons.
689 million live in extreme poverty.
What can I do, I'm one person?
What can I do, I'm one person?
What can I do, I'm one person?
Give a little more than I spend for me.
Give a little more than I spend for me.
Give a little more than I spend for me.

There's not a poem or a song for this yet.
Loving because love is the only way.
As we dance and move around our hearts,
Your face shows me your part.
A show of respect.
A show of affection.
How do I love someone more like a daughter?
I'm glad we could be around each other.
I don't want you to go out of your way for me.
But when you do, I know that the respect and affection are there for you too.
I don't want into your personal life, unless you want to go out of your way to.
Sometimes there's no way to show you.
Sometimes there's no way to show you,
What my smile is about.
It hides years you don't have.
It hides tears you don't have.
It hides smiles you don't have.
I wish somehow my heart could open this treasure box inside.
It can't happen until you start asking questions.
And I can't show it with wisdom save for maybe once or twice a year.
If it doesn't spark your attention,
Then I'll smile and it'll be alright.

My mind goes for a smoke before my body does.
It becomes a pressure just like holding *** if I don't fulfill the mind's intention.
The heart is silenced and prepared for the intake of nicotine even though I haven't moved from my place.
The social joys, the buzz, and relief of smoking circulate through my mind.
My back tells me it will be comforted by smoking, just like a teenager asking for car keys.
The part of me who doesn't want to smoke is portrayed as an over-worried mother, over protecting this teen.
The male aspect that wants to stop smoking is decided as the empty insurance salesman simply concerned with the money.
In other words he is seen as fake.
Next, the Natives remind me that tobacco is a sacred tradition given by White Buffalo Calf Woman.
"It eases tention," She says.
I think about the people I've influenced to smoke, and how others influenced me too.
I think how much more healthy Chloe looks now that she's quit.
My hip muscles now tell me a smoke will relax them.
I'm reminded of the lack of care of minorities by those who don't smoke.
I'm reminded of smoking comradery.
Of Native society centered on the pipe.

A tattoo of my newfound math problems: R^n.

And with this one distraction, all these thoughts of smoking combine and say: "okay, let's go smoke" as if tugging at my seat.
Yet I tie myself to my seat, I theory anyway.
Smoke or sleep? They try the either or question.
I'm staying up for another 11 minutes.
What will happen?
The friendliness of Nic does it to me again.

Post your poem so I can share my thoughts, she says.
That child that gets to share at show and tell in kindergarten.
I get to talk to everyone about me, that little boy says.
All proud of himself.
Is it a hidden world where I am a star?
When will it be the other kids' turn for show and tell?
When I'm interested, he maintains.
This world is about me when I focus on me, and about them when I focus on them.
Is there a place not to share?
Does this mean I listen to others by not sharing?
Well, it certainly sets the ears to others than myself.

Holding *** when the muscle requires some effort directs attention to the lower body away from the eyes and the head area which is the normal place of reflection.
It makes me think of releasing it and of the bathroom and toilet to do so, as if I was constructing a plan to carry out.
The other muscles used to concentrate can be relaxed as the new concentration is on the bladder area.
Yet this pulls the attention to the seat if seated, like placing attention on the foundation of the meditation posture.
The focus spreads to the thighs and solar plexus.
Finally to the back of the head, but with pressure that will not allow anything to replace it.
The management mind states next that the task at hand is more pressing than bladder release.
And I remember all the times I've had to hold my *** and the places and situations that precipitated them.
I start to tell myself that I'm suffering needlessly as if I was being bullied by my situation.
Thus the parts of the body actually take the center of the personality over other parts of the body.
The managerial aspect will offer motherly comfort to the childlike personality of holding ***.
I start to go into wishful dream mentality just like holding *** while in the early hours of the morning trying to still sleep.
And the attention is tranquilized back to reflection with the hold tucked away in the background of the mind, reflection aspect now being more parental in nature.
What is transcendence? is sort of a moronic question, and I notice my words start to be more bullyish.
This question is rather asking is there a particle of transcendence?
No, it is a function of frequencies of the body.
Consciousness can be the essential aspect of transcending, but no more than consciousness is the essential of concentration.
Tranquility and insight, just as taught, happens, without attention on tranquility, and without tranquility within attention.

So much is dependent on personal initiative.
Truth goes unread because it has to do with someone else's answer and not mine.
What has consensus done to the world but created a unified vision?
Consensus is really only reached through personal knowledge and awareness of the aspects of the vision of the world.
So if I see another reaching for an answer, it might be beneficial if I reached for it too.

Reflection is an object just like an atom or a wall.
When this object reflects nothing, there is no object at all.
Nothing is so disgraceful for a writer, except to hearken to its call.
No life is there save by this word, a letter, or a number even.
Only appreciated when the song birds sleep.
During the day I replace it with something, so that I may reflect some object.
For "nothing" is as sleep except for one still awake at 5 AM.
Coked up you could say on dark chocolate, green tea, and nutmeg.
Spaces held together by cigarette puffs.
Waiting for sunrise for another day of the Baha'i Fast to begin.
Hollow is how I feel from concentrating on vipassana alone.
But what is peace if there is no knowledge?
"No knowledge, no peace," there I've said it.
Already missing the winter, though I dreaded it.
Or is it "Know knowledge, know peace," I play with it?
So here I hold the philosopher's stone.
In a month I'll question if I really did.
This thing, a thing it is, though it is a chameleon of sorts.
The trick is to never make small talk with myself.
Though at this a seasoned person would balk.
What is left but a heart beat and a nerve?
A silence that will soon be warmed.
Oh yes, at a new day I must restate what has proved the tests of time: what is consciousness?
I think what they really are asking is what gives humanity our level of abstraction.
Why it's been proven: our large brain compared to our body's size.
Why must consciousness be a surprise?
DNA that formed from the elements: is this a more abstract conclusion?
Or, should it be found in a vaccuum: where no one can socialize, so only one team of scientists can win the prize?
Is it in God, to which I say a Prophet has said we will never ever know.
Within reason, to know God, our DNA would have to further differentiate.
By this, I mean, these mutations is what we are after.
To evolve, could this be consciousness' answer?
Without sleep, no meat (for a year), what other memories could rhyme: deer?
Rabbits and squirrels, mosquitos and trees all sleep, but please: I'm on a numbered clock not a clock of the sun.
Remember when the Braves won?
Remember when the pool was no sport, but fun?
There I go in frivolous pastimes.
Insight, insight, insight, my superego clamps down.
Produce a pearl for Hello Poetry to muse.
Although sometimes these poems I think confuse.
Humanity's joy shut down by a virus.
But an introvert's paradise, what consolation.
To the news half of the ears surmise.
Why is the news about dollar signs?
Capitalism is the Holy Ghost of some.
Give all my money to the Church and Republicans.
Tell us "only Jesus" when only half your gospel you follow.
Tell me Jesus is love when you think hell is beneath.
What grief!
Have you ever heard of the sweet sparrow of Baha?
Calling all peoples leaves of one tree?
Saying every person is equal, no more righteous, nor exalted?
Setting the hearts of the followers of all religions on fire?
They all are One, we say.
You practice yours, I'll practice mine, but never say "hell" to one another, and you'll find:
a better Earth, hearts of heaven too.
A better neighborhood for me and you.
*
But I know some have searched the hearts of Baha, only to find we're "one wayers".
If you cannot find the mercy in us, we're happy for you to join another religion too.
Thanks for inquiring, and if Baha rings so true, but find it's not practiced right, then Baha has said truly no religion is right, no religion is true.