I'm stuck here.
I'm gonna die here.
I've moved so little that the shadows are printed on my skin where the sun can't burn.

I'm trying to move.
I have plans to move.
I'm doing everything in my power to move.
I'm giving everything I have, everything I am, risking everything except for my heart hope and soul just to move.

But I can't move.

I swear when I move I'm gonna move in ways nobody has ever seen before. I'm gonna move so fast, I'll pick up everybody else who's like me; Who wants nothing more than to move but just can't seem to figure out how.

Nothings gonna stop me when I move.
Not because I'll move so fiercely but because I'll move with so much grace and I'll help so many others move that people won't want to stop me.

They'll say, "let him move, its better for everyone if he moves. Things have improved, since he moved."

A lot of people when they move they go straight to the buffet, stepping on people, not really caring where they step and then they eat all of the food.

They eat so much more than they need and it only makes us want to move all the more.

They love that we can't move, if we all could move they wouldn't have abundance, we'd all be just right.

I don't wanna be like them, I wanna move everyone.

I'm gonna move the world.

I wish I could move.

But I can't move.
*breathe

Because poetry
is like a state of mind.
Living,
feeling
and then just letting that do the writing
even if the reality ends up bad.
I guess I really am an optimist.
I just don't see any point
in believing in anything
that doesn't serve you in a way that makes you enjoy life more.
Truths only value isn't simply that it has a metric of it being a shared reality.
There is value truth has in the fact that your beliefs are what go on to filter your lens of perception,
defines the language you use,
which become your thoughts,
which become your actions,
which stimulates your environment
and in turn moves you
to dance within a world of cause and effect.
If only people understood this
maybe they wouldn't fill themselves with the things they do
we'd be closer with karma
we'd be in control
not subject to the whims of somebody else's logic that you picked up and clung to
from a pool of information that was all that was available
but not all that there is.

She broke the bottle over our heads
and the milk mingled with the blood.
That's how one feeds monsters.
The fingernails dig in deep and pull out threads of fabric.
It might have held the world instead of bled, she said
But I can't toe the line of a killer.

Not a poem, just a thank you.
Today my HP reads passed the million mark.
A huge thank you to everyone that took the time to read the things I've written and special thanks to those that took the time to like, share and comment.

Thank you all so very much.

Peace

You'll never get rich as a poet,
its not that you're not any good,
but your words get given away to the poor,
like you're a lyrical Robin of Hood.

Your words will serve as a comfort,
to women and children and men,
but your time and emotions flow freely,
like the ink from your fountain pen.

But lets be honest about one thing,
we don't do what we do for the cash.
Words are like itches we can't quite scratch,
and our poems the resulting rash.

So you'll never get rich as a poet,
at least not in a monetary sense,
but you'll have lived your life in the trenches,
and not watched it pass by from the fence.

Another time, another place
perhaps then it would make sense
but for now its just too painful
watching you sit upon the fence
The timing was not ours to choose
for surely if it were
You wouldn't have to make a choice
nor I 'tween you and her
But choose I did and you I did
I give to you my all
but there you sit upon the fence
unsure which side to fall
And so I ask you one last time
who your choice is please just say
put us both out of our misery
and let the wounded walk away
Another time, another place
perhaps then it would make sense
perhaps then our paths would never cross
and we would keep our innocence