an old tree stands bare
and alone until seasons
start to rearrange
when people ignore parts of
the puzzle of love
Blossoms appear alone
Butterflies roam free
Rainbows dissolve pain
wisdom and light beams
give hope and understanding
to the one who waits
blood is thicker than
water but love blooms where there
is light to just be
To read more of my writings go to: http://reflectionsoflight7.wixsite.com/home
There’s a universe inside of you,
But I’m just a little star.
Once my light is out,
There'll be none of me.
You gaze, admired it, then you close your eyes to sleep. Only to wake for the Sun.
Both living and dying,
Awake and asleep,
Eyes opened wide and still so blind.
Ears to listen, a voice to share,
A mind to wander and a heart to feel.
Rarely used, taught to shut.
A technicolor being in a noir world,
A vessel of which the whole universe choose to reside.
The divine in the flesh.
Who believes these are two separate entities.
Or is it not?
Forever a question with no answers,
it is an abstract infinite loop with no alpha nor omega.
Existence itself is a rational paradox
and a corrupted masterpiece.
As we learn that there is no creator without its creations,
and no creations without its creator,
Are we able to exist without the ego or the soul?
To truly live with no purpose? Or is that in itself, a purpose?
A conundrum that can't be tested, even how hard you try to exercise every specific. Just ail parts on a spinning axis with no conclusion! The conclusion to test the bewildered expression of pieces without there own thoughts. Feelings resort to compassion. Excluding the taste all together. It’s messy how something exists, which has no theme to what they are, and how one is tested. Tested to take your parts and find some commonality with more existing parts that urge the taste of compassion. A taste with its sense of propriety. Justification to mount moral terms with oneself. Oneself can’t tell itself apart. Only pieces trying to organize itself while spinning their connections down the rut! Permanent desire to fetch them out of the phase that’s established its original premise. Originality has no qualms with the likes of compassion. Setting up without any discernible corrections. Meant for outsiders within themselves to judge, plan, and exercise, without mercy to anything but oneself. Spinning axis burns desires upon urges that breakdown over time. The spinning pace doesn’t stop, until you stop and learn what truly is happening. Pieces remain in the rut. The rut full of many spread out phases too much to take in all at once. Plans don’t go to your agreement. Something outside oneself has yet to appreciate yourself, and what you have to offer. Except how does one do that when many pieces are too spread out for one to notice? Every specific is already radiating like a charged particle. Charging too much friction between one another. Trying not to lose one another in the constant spin of irony. Irony devoted without practice. Practice makes time for oneself to finally notice the originality of its premise isn’t truly spinning on its axis. It’s actually strolling for one’s interpretations to finally notice its static charge. The different pieces are holding on. Fetching the obvious back into circulation. Circulation outmatched not by itself. But by perception of a fully established sense of self.
Pieces aren't social by themselves. There social when spread out radiuses can't discern the label of what one has to express. Lagging out transmissions to judgeable by pace alone.
I have changed.
Through the addition of each day,
Through everything I am part of.
I hope I am better,
But it is hard to say.
I do know I am different.
I see the new through everything that has gone before;
Today through yesterday, and the days prior;
Through memories, all memories, each one in its place,
as now mixes with old.
I feel it.
This must be what they call age.
I am reminded..constantly reminded,
That at the passing of each moment,
Of every thought,
Of every memory,
Of everything that has happened,
Of every strong pull,
Of every touch of the heart,
Of every tear that falls,
Of every wound,
which longs to heal,
I can only be here
what we become in
rejection to the templates
we succumb to
a positive negation of what
we once believed to be our
cast aside even the idea
of a revelatory rebirth
silence and space do not
emptiness, void - they too fail
the more i write about it,
the less i say about it
I thought I found it:
The answer to being human.
It came in a little heart-shaped box.
It told me to work hard and achieve my goals.
It told me to find people that love me,
and love them too.
It told me to get my head down early
and eat a colourful plate.
With all these boxes ticked,
I found glory in a greater life.
But still I found myself hurting.
I found brittle bones breaking.
I saw people bleed and break.
This, I found, is called being human.
To that, there is no cure.
But to treat life with a healthy smile,
and live out your days bringing smiles to others.
Now that, is being the most human of all.
Of course it’s watered down
Everything is and see
There’s always a watering down
As you knew always and we all knew
Along with you but take notice
Of how it all is
In all dimensions this
And this and this and this
And this and this and this
But yes we see it all snapshot
Until maybe just or only a poem
Can or cannot capture
What has to be but it may get close
Or close enough to see nothing
Is forgotten or forgets nothing it
Has worse dreams than you
But knows they are not dreams and
Some will sow seeds and
Or maybe just or only a poem will
Wonder if yum yum this appeals
To mind or this or that part that
At present needs what it does not
Yet know it has in abundance
In profound abundance
Or call back tomorrow
Or tune in tomorrow
Or hope for tomorrow
Or just hope
If no one reads
If no one comments
It still exists
It still IS
I am still patiently waiting
for the day to come
where I wake up
kinda sad idk recouvering