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Evening sky reflects
on the glass lake.
The soldier of a
tree carries on
through the lonesome
night.
If we could only
see the dreams of
the fish,
far from the
frying pan.
This is a repost.  Here's a link to my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
Brand new video.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucOOifTukWQ
I see it beaming through the windows
I see it slanting through the doors
It’s jiving on the ceiling
It's waltzing on the floor
It's smiling on the potted plants
On red flower beds and vines
It's quilting skies with gold
And lighting up wind chimes
A silken web is glistening -
The gossamer that's spun
I'll keep my share of sun shine
A pocket full of sun.
Poetry is universal.
Everyone speaks it, even if by accident.
Yet, hardly anyone understands it.
No one notices
The hidden meanings in every sentence,
And every word.
Sometimes, not even the poet.
There is more to every poem than meets the eye.
But deconstruction can only go so far.
Everyone has something to hide. Some, in my opinion, just choose to hide whatever it is, in their poems.
Get me to be
a soul liberated
from every
attachment
it could be.

I want to want
nothing from anywhere
not want to get
tempted
by things unnecessary
get myself bound to
what will be my
downfall

The soul needs nothing
it is to be free
but my own flaws
have made it
not so
that it could go
as it pleases

What is that one really needs
with no one else be depleted
all the seed, sign of lives
but with greed
everything dies

Devoid of true knowledge
what is I seek
I see myself so very weak
my vision so blinded
my eyes itself closes
that I cannot see

the lies will bite
the anger will burn
my own journey
with karma
it will come back on me
I wait
as I expect them
coming to me

My sins who will wash for me?

my thoughts
why they never sided me
they followed the down path
got me to fuss on things
over all the nothings
never mattered to me

the body detoriates
every day, every second passes

My mind forget
what it remembers
I speak no tales, but riddles
what sense
I try to formulate

This time who will be
the one to get it to decode
the mysteries
the real truths
which could liberate
but to think deeper
what really is
the answer lies very deep within
much closer than
who you are actually really.
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
 Mar 7 Anika Parihar
Hanaa
How can emptiness be so heavy?
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48 65 79 20 6c 6f 6f 6b 20 61 20 70 6f 65 6d 20 69 6e 20 68 65 78 20 68 6f 77 20 63 72 61 7a 7a 79
Brick
        By
            Brick
A house is built
Hour
        By
            Hour
The house becomes a home
Day
        By
            Day
The home turns into memories
Year
        By
            Year
The memories turn into people
Century
        By
            Century
The people turn into stories
Story
        By
            Story
Stories turn into legends
Legend
        After
            Legend
History is changed
Piece
        By
            Piece
Lives are changed
Person
        By
            Person
Love is spread
One Love
        After
            Another
Bricks are purchased
That build houses
That turn into homes
That create memories
That turn into people
That turn into stories
That turn into legends
That change history
And it all started with
Just. One. Brick.
Sometimes it's tough when you are just laying bricks to see the end picture, but it makes a difference in the end! It can be so easy at times to feel like we aren't doing enough to help others or to grow ourselves, but one ripple affects the entire pond.
i always have
the urge to run.

but what is it like
to be a tree?

to be confident enough
to root yourself
and grow with
wild abandonment,
being unapologetically
you?

i'm still running,
but i wish i knew.
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