I once read something that got to me
About how extreme confidence,
Is saying what's in your heart without paying mind

With that being undoubtedly true
The first person to come to my mind,
Was a poet

perhaps it is the weather
a prolonged absence of the sun
or presence of the winter cold
or just a temporary fashion

the media as well as many webbéd sites
simply abound with dreary blather
     of lovers lost and death so cold
     the lonesomeness of every single soul
     and how s/he suffers when s/he writes
spelled out at length with no discretion

we know that people suffer from depression
or unquenchable anger at the world
and how through proper treatments
you can considerably relieve the pain

fix them in words is one of them
    but may not be enough
sometimes a mix of pills and pen
may do the trick and help you
    write yourself through your misty prison walls
    discover unlocked doors hidden in plain sight
    step out into the sunshine
        from the darkest night

you are the sun
    whose radiance illuminates the world
    lends brilliance to your life
    sheds light on everything you’ve done

and soon you’ll notice
even the weather is getting bether …

Learn to LIVE

There once was a man
Who lived a "good" life
He worked through all trials
Temptation and strife

He lived very humbly
Never wished to be rich
Was good to his neighbours
Nothing bad passed his lips

He said, " God look at me!
I am worthy of praise!
I am without sin
But not by your grace...

For I am an atheist
And I don't need Christ
Humans provide
All their own good advice."

Then there was another
Who, quote, "lived for God"
But he looked upon sinners
as though they were odd...

He said, " God, I thank thee
That I'm not like them
For I walk uprightly
No, I do not sin...

And when I get to heaven
The praise shall be loud!
I'll walk right in
And I'll be so proud!"

Then there was a woman
Who'd give her last dime
That she could use drugs
And drink her sweet wine

But she cried, " Lord!
Please have mercy on me!
For I am so wretched!
So unworthy of thee!

I'm not all that clean
And I shout at folks
I drink and do drugs
And God help me, I smoke!

But, Lord, I am trying!
I want so much to change!
Please come into my heart
And my life rearrange..."

Then came the time
When all of them died
And the woman in heaven
Saw the men with such pride

In eternal torment
They cried out, "Lord!
We kept all your precepts
And sin we abhorred!

Why is that woman
Up there with you?
She so unfaithful
And she so untrue!

But Jesus said sadly,
"Yes, you were "good".
You had that advantage
Yet misunderstood.

I did not want works.
That's not what I bid.
You gave not your hearts,
But this woman DID.

I was always there knocking
But death cut like a knife
I gave you your chance...

YOU HAD YOUR WHOLE LIFE.


SoulSurvivor
(c) 6/14/2009

Dear writer/reader,

I need you to take yourself through this brief poetry lesson...

Poetry is how we give meaning to our feelings and thoughts,
It is not merely stringing words together,
But putting something out there,
That someone else can relate to
Or merely draw inspiration from.
It is a recipe for criticism,
But within reason.

So, go on and let these words be the mouthpiece for your head and heart.

Sincerely yours,
(noma)Freedom

Why can't we be like grass?
When it gets stepped on,it gets back up

Schizophrenia is a private cell
Reserved for just one in the depths of Hell,
A place without an exact location,
A damnation found in desperation

For an escape from feeling trapped inside
The spot you sought refuge and tried to hide
From vicious voices, all disembodied.
Solitude's precious, but also oddly

Does enough to make you feel too alone.
Perhaps you'll miss some voice's monotone
Droning that lectured, but still seemed to care,
Though some of those voices wrought your despair.

You mustn't forget some voices are real,
And yet, those can often cause your ordeals.

You people that say
“There aren’t any gays
In my race or church!”
You’re so wrong, I say.
You’re so wrong
It will be hard to get back
To right, you know,
Where you went off track.

You people that say
There are no gays
In our holy country
You’re wrong too, I say.
You’re hiding something
About yourself to say it.
You’re driving yourself crazy
The way you want to play it.

You people that say
“Jesus hates blacks and gays!”
You are totally wrong
That’s not what the book says.
You people that think
You know the path to heaven
Couldn’t find you way
If it was at the Seven Eleven.

You people that say
“God damns you people to hell!”
Haven’t read that book
Or understand it very well.
The book never has Jesus
To utter one punishing word.
So, where did it come from,
All that hatred you have heard?

You people that say
“There aren’t any gays
In my race or church!”
You’re so wrong, I say.
You’re so wrong
It will be hard to get back
To right, you know,
Where you went off track.

The she-devil that rides my soul
Her putrid breath stinging my nostrils
Her decaying teeth gnawing my flesh
Her ragged nails clawing at my heart
ripping my life to shreds.

Written by Keith Edward Baucum

It is not the secrets that we should fear
but rather, that which is known

The savage cold
the howling wind and blinding snow
the unforgiving heart of Mother Russia's Winter
this is what we endure
lest we shall never be called the best

Today we have drifted slightly off course
and must pitch our tent on this mountain side
so as not to surrender valuable distance
in the tent we warm ourselves
with our bodies and small heater
we tell stories of our childhood, our families
and our sweethearts
these are the moments most cherished
moments that we take home with us
that remain forever

Just as the swirling winds are about to send us to dream,
flashes of light, the scream of some unholy machine
and the shadows of terror thrash about like demons from our worst nightmares
someone grabs the ax and begins to rip the tent
from the inside out and we run for our lives
barefoot and frightened beyond all comprehension,
beyond all logic
we run as fast we can into bitter cold and biting wind

Four were ravaged while the others were separated
and they watched us until we froze,
too panic stricken to move toward the tent where warmth awaited
perhaps the thought of an even more unbearable death
kept us there
where we were found

this is our story
known as Dyatlov Pass,
named after our leader
and harboring nine souls
who never crossed
the mountain of the dead
February 2nd, 1959

It is not the secrets that we should fear
but rather, that which is known

If you think you can
You will
If you think you can’t
You won’t
If you think you ought
Then do
If you think you naught
Then don’t
WIZDUMBs BY JA 581