Seems there’s nothing there
Is it see-through
Is it like dark matter and dark energy
The forces of invisible entities that bind us

They invade our thoughts covertly
And we never know our feelings’ feelings
For theirs is a different world
Beyond our own

Forces bind energy and matter
To interact with the senses;
And through this process
The ghosts of thoughts take mold

Secondary level of production
Involves post-processing and
The rise of libraries of metadata
And if we are cautious
We could gain access to new layers

New horizons within the body of our thoughts
Lingering dormant
Waiting to be discovered
It's all there
Catalyzing inspiration
Seemingly out of thin air

Be like the moon; ever evolving with inner beauty and creativity.

Hussein Dekmak

Poetry grows as a function of pain.
Organized anguishes conquer your brain.
Brilliance is a burden so rare,
You can not ignore it, so it, you must bear.
You will not sleep; no, you’re not allowed.
You’re a slave to the page til it’s all written down.
The night is long gone, but there’s no time to mourn:
As the sun starts to rise, a young poem is born.
You lament for lost sleep as you stumble around.
Your heart in your ears is a deafening sound.
The pain has subsided, but you’re well aware
That though it’s appeased, it is always still there.
Inspiration lurks, ever waiting to strike.
It exclusively chooses a time you don’t like.
Try as you might, you are bound to the pen,
And after each respite, it comes back again.

Tapping his fingers
upon wooden desk , Albert
wished he'd done much more

all the times he spent
away from his family
touring the country

had left him in a
state of winter emptiness
of frozen raindrops

his banjo his friend
his only friend , his wife , his
two children now gone

taken way to soon
from a tragic accident
flowers never grew

there spirits now fly
echoing through his cracked walls
of a broken heart

his sorrowful heart
numb and black with depression
took over his soul

he gave a sigh of
regret as he looked outside
his window of pain

shelves of unread books
decorated the sky , soft
snowflakes stood still

an empty armchair
a brown stained cup of coffee
floated in-between

a jack in the box
popped up every hour , a
small hand fades away

a pretty apron
covered in painted saucepans
danced with a big spoon

he bowed his head , his
eyes filled with tears like bright stars
twinking at night

his feet rooted deep
under the ground clinging to
a life he once knew

until spring leaves blossomed
spreading a rush of warm love
into his heart

he opened his eyes
to a sky of birds flapping
there wings happily

and for the first time
in a long time , he watched
the golden sunrise

And he knew there and
then he must forgive himself
for the life he'd lived

Have you ever fallen into the world behind your eyes?
Tis a world beyond description, of concept and timeless colour, pure sensation.
Have you ever loved the world behind the sky?
Loved the ideas, not the people, not the grass, but the sound of green on green.
Have you ever dined in a maze of countless lies?
Seen the beauty in the words, danced in meadows made of her...
Have you ever sat and watched the darkness; the twilight, mirrored starlight?
I have and it burned quietly; quietly and softly.

There is a devil inside of me.
An aspect so far removed from self,
It is so inconcievable, so impossible, and so unlike anything I could imagine.

Such selves sit in a sea of silent symphony,
Until the mania power trips into madness.
Then the screaming starts, the sad souls of infinite self, wailing their woes into every action and inaction.

But this wrongness, it has no tongue, no words of daggers. Just the mind numbing imposition of its own existence.

While it is in no particular way, its own creative, there are those of empathetic tones who transcribe its violent song into death hymns.

I sit a passenger, on a dangerous train, headed faster to hell, and I'm the devil inside.

There was a fog that seemed to hover thickly
over the perceived salience of his musings
  
It was as if there were a veiled mystique
that left hopeful understanding ,
                   ambiguously obscured ...

His soul's cadences fell beyond the pale ,
like a reverberant iron bell’s clamor ,
                   drowning acumen ;

albeit , unmistakabe crystal clear allusions ,
scanning inwardly, rhapsody in his mind's eye

                    Illusive accord ,
                    beclouded by seeming stigmas
                    borne of the flesh ;
                    delicately sensitive nuances ,
                    misunderstood imperfections ,
                    bespoken utterance weighed heavy upon heart ...

In the hush of pensive repose ,
flow of soul streamed forth from its retreat within ;
bequeathed as if darkness
was magnetically drawn towards light ,
purging muted understanding ...

                    Assuredly seeking all questions with verve ,
                    accepting , that all answers sought
                    are not meant to be understood

A realization of those who wish to speak yet abide unspoken ;
the unseen mark of those that wished they had been loved ,
befallen the music of a thundering heartbeat ,
understanding a circle is vulnerable ,
only makes it stronger ―

                    hence ,..
                    it had been written
                    in countless misunderstood ways ...

Knowing he resists an inner-voice to endure silently
for a fear of that which remains indelibly writ ,
tattooed on introspective walls
far removed from the afterglow of light ,
where depth of soul yearns to be freed ;

                    heart speak hushed , deft words avowed
                    in enigmatic tongues ― Vayu doth whisper

                    soul's prevailing tides ebb and flow
                    from unseen depths , permeating
                    deeply within inner realms

The spirit of soul once steeped his heart’s intone :

               "Spell words that bind together passing strangers  
                 Coalesce  thoughts to inspirit those whom often walk alone
                 Append the goodwill of poetry, aspiring to bond individual
                 hearts and minds with words of love and light.  
                 Conjure written  spells to bespeak sincerely ,
                 a faith in unabated love"

and yet ,   he will write it again and again ,.. searching beyond words

…words grasped from emerging thoughts
                   drawn in to the light
                   searching for other adept words
                   to recite yet another way ,
                   sketch another word-scape ,
                   written with the relentless inexhaustibleness
                   of an unstoppable awakening ...  

Another winter dawn imbues a new day come to light

                   he will write it again and again ,

                                          ... finding another way to be set free ...



                                                          ­       Harlon Rivers

What would I do if I was to wake up
And found myself able to talk
With animals who could swim, fly or walk.
I suppose I would spend the day in trees all day,
Or perhaps celebrate a dog’s birthday.
I would ask fish how it feels to breathe
Or what dogs feel when there’s meat stuck in their teeth
I could finally make friends who had no bias
And wouldn’t be swayed to leave me alone.
I could talk with whoever I wanted,
and all I would need would be able to dream.