You think seeing is believing
You think you're alive just because you're breathing
But the truth that you've been told
Is stale and old
It holds you back, won't let you move
To do some good or think of something new
Dark and relentless, warped and demented
Read on if this has captured your attention

So this is what it's like to be holy?
This was the vision that kept me awake in bed
The revelation manifesting itself in my head
I remember wishing so hard to wake up dead
But then a whispering voice crept up and said
"Why not turn your weakness into strength instead?"
It was like a gust of wind with a goal to embed
Me with some kind wisdom for what was ahead
But who was I? Some kid thought to be brain dead
Filled with guilt, shame and irrational dread
Always quiet, leaving my words left unsaid

So this is what it's like to be holy?
But now after hard work and humbling failures
I'm breaking down doors and busting up barriers
This is so major
After dealing with haters, traitors and jailers
Who gave me the spark, who gave me a reason
To go make my mark and fight for my freedom
To pick up the pieces and make something decent
To freeze all the heathens and either eat or be eaten
Or I could have become numb and go to the bottle
But I'm having too much fun becoming colossal
       -Tommy Johnson
Sunlight warming up face
They're bitter just taking up space
But I'm trying to start something
I'm not trying to be judging
But it's kind of touching
How I started out as nothing

So this is what it's like to be holy?

Above my head, I saw the dead dance
Put under a trance
A Gothic romance
I heard the whisper say "take a chance"
"It's the won't it's never can't"
"You must always advance"
And with that I made took my stance

So this is what it's like to be holy?

November





Helen Hunt Jackson
.
This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays
Will idly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet’s day of pain?

Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country**
Make your votes count.

As ***** as a three balled tomcat
Very *****
Very full of ****** desire
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


You can fake that loud sound during ***
However, no need to fake that sound
With your first meal of the day
Oh so yummy! Oh, so hungry for that touch
So here I am as ***** as a three balled tomcat

What if everything were revealed about my whereabouts
Especially last night, was I somnambulism?
It’s time to get myself together. I was all over the place
I have to channel my energy today into something useful;
I have to stay soulful, I have to stay focused
I might be a night walker

However, If a man awakes the sleeping tigress within
He better be ready to calm its wicked, wicked ways
A woman isn’t complete without the
Amen, hallelujah, thank be to glory moments
As she reaches the maximum of her
Amazing, mind and body-blowing experience
I have to challenge them… did I lose my self-respect?

My midnight blue satin dress
Someone said that it’s a wicked, wicked tease
I know that it controls my every mood
Staying ahead of the curves, surveying the scenery
Swaying down the Avenue living dangerously
Down where the palm trees sway against the breeze
Here I am as ***** as a three balled tomcat.
but I can surely make the bad boys good for the weekend

and she wrote poetry
listening to the moonbeams crash at her feet
while the stars exploded and died before her eyes.

Fear the poets that wielded great power with their pens.

the enfeebled voice spoke of hopelessness
the inflamed flesh told of a spirit subdued
shrunken and felled by a creeping weakness
her sightless eyes  were a sign of approaching demise
yet she said she would see me in the morning
and next day under the winking sun i was at her mourning
keeping a promise made a long time ago under a cork tree
to sing about the beauty of a true heart that loved well
and how there was a place and a time for sundown trysts
in the world of articulate shadows beyond the endless blue
and there an enigmatic silhouette she waits in expectant vigil