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Why are many great poets tortured and tormented?
I'm only distorted by the pain many poets feel.
I'll never be a great poet, thank God!
But, poets, I love your words.
I love you.
Please find a way to love yoursevles!
I weep for the pain you feel.
If I could make you smile,
I would be a happy, average at best, poet.
Whoaa, why so blunt, harsh hard-hearted heathen,
hear me out...
chase the dragonfly as it weaves trails to places
you have never dreamed...
                                             or have you?
pick the cherry tomato right off your vine
brush it off and bite down and let the juices
                          stream,
down your granite chin.

In your life were you ever gentle,
I mean soft with kindness,
      in love with blindness,
if you held your hand out would
all the animals long to be
close to you

or would you be all alone
through decades of cultivated fear
                       and evaporated tears,
from the heat of your raging anger
                  your looks like daggers,
skip down the aisles of grocery stores,
even when you are with friends of yours,
have a sock fight and be willing to lose,
sit on some shady chaise somewhere as
the sun sets and just drink in all that
is around, no needs no wants,
no haunts as the skeletons return to
their closets and leave you to be free
to laugh to cry to share to pry
your hands off the greed that chokes
every breath that could have been full
of
life
oh be gentle friend be gentle
their is enough spirits of malice
that yours, your spirit need not
be numbered among them,
oh gentle giant not by stature
not by might but by how God
sees you within His sight and
sings over you,
gentle humble friend if
we had the time to break bread
instead of speed records or
hearts misled by, "that is how we are wired."

Gentle

you can still be a man of courage,
you are a man of strength
you are a gentle man



©DWE072013
*dedicated to the Carpenters*
a ramble from a real long day in traffic which I normally can avoid, but not today, let it go...D
something GZ does not get
Not guilty doesn't mean you are innocent

not surprised by the wrongs these days,
some play at life
some deal death
anger in so many places
fury on drivers faces
all twisted like a basin
bristle cone pine

trVth
is people,
long ago
we lost
our youth
and innocence
no patience
no rich milk
of any kindness
and total blindness
to even a mite
of charity
due to
economic
disparity
alternating
faith less
worry and
less faith,
have
we gone
beyond
hope
there is
love
there is
the
lover
of my soul
which IS the
Greatest of these
even more
than
TRvTH.


©DWE072013
When I close my eyes,
                                      what do I see,
from the darkness comes your face, and
trees reaching out reaching up, then
the last words I read in some Book somewhere,
the weight
of
them takes me to my knees,
where I find you waiting,
in the coolness, and all this time I have
acted and thought I was alone.

Does my life have to empty out and lay on the
ground for me to realize how precious, i t  i s
how fast it goes by, how little time we are given...
eyes heavy am I falling down to the ground
then to dreaming.

A young child on a swing,
sees a bird with a broken wing,
runs to get a shoe box, some grassy bedding,
calling for his mother, while crying,

please be okay, please okay, please

he cups his hands carefully carrying
the bird, pecking, into the box now nesting,
quietly he walks while his hands are bleeding,
calling for his mother while crying,

it will be okay, it will be okay

Up the stairs,
puts the box
down with care,
opening the door,
entering with his
treasure, quietly
sleeping,
but he can't find his mother
anywhere,
suddenly the box gets heavier,
as a
cat jumps
on, the box
in his hands
strikes him strange
as they don't own
a cat...
imagine that.

mom make it okay,
mom make the cat go away,
mom why didn't you stay...
mom?


©DWE072013
**** i know this is where i belong.
everything feels right just for me.
this feeling im in love with..
and this fresh air is washing through my lungs bringing this new feeling.
and im surrounded.
surrounded by the one thing i love
MUSIC
while the bass its vibrating through my chest
i feel im being spoken to.
its a feeling i dont get anywhere else.
its a feeling im not used to feeling.
theres something about this that touches me like nothing else does.. kisses my emotions like no one else can.
where has this been all my life?
this whole idea of expressing yourself... **** its amazing.
haha went to a open mic
I am one thing to myself.
to you I'm another....
to the mirror
I am broken reflection.
to my dad,
I'm a visitor.
to guys
I'm just a toy.
to girls
im the one they only want sometimes.
to the church
I am a ****** up teen that's made too many mistakes.
to society
I am the shy one, that shows her self sometimes.
the one always looking for the lost sheep only realizing that i am that lost sheep among many.

where do i find my self in all these tittles?

i was raised here
i watched people come and go seen them grow old here...
I've watched my dad walk away from here.
through the years I've only grown further away.
how come church is where i always feel ashamed.
how come church is where I'm criticized.
HOW COME YOU EXPECT SO MUCH FROM ME?
on Sunday that's the one day I'm good enough....
then on Tuesday I'm a disappointment.
and I'm only good if i am on the worship team.
**** wheres me?
Everything was dreary
...And bleak.
And my skin happened to look red and splotchy.
All I had wanted
Was to binge on coco flavanols and overdose on caffeine.
I hadn't moisturized my skin after my shower, or put cover up on while it was still moist and warm. My veneer had not been established.
I told myself it didn't matter..
But really this issue was the cultivation
The turning point of my day.

Then I put my face on.
The grey, somber mask turned to Lovely, Feminine Pink.
As I spread the beige cream across my complexion, I felt something shift; insidious.
I felt the ******* I had been enslaved to.
I had been the one
With no friends and no sellouts to lug around with the rest of her baggage.
I had been the one
Who gawked and sneered
At the self-medication of the lonely girls who looked oh-so attractive
With their gleaming, hair~framed faces
And popping eyes.
What have I become?
I now claim this self selling drug
As my own.
What does it mean? What does it say about me?
Even more importantly, what does it say about you, and your stand point?
Do you put your face on, or do you let your soul bubble out of the surface of your complection?
FACE
A FACE
A million faces, pretty ones.
It's time to face the place of natural grace and replace the superficial first impression we chase.
It's not really a poem yet but simply my brains on paper.
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