Sometime acceptance is key to forget about what took the heart's hold.
May of fold, for everything in front of you that you behold.
Cherish what still may accumulate from this cursed concept of time.
Rehearse this mere delusion as it just another illusion illustrated between bonds you may not be fond of, but it will be fine.
Push through and don't miscue.
Remember the solace in the heart but don't take forgranted it's expression.
As it very much may so be your lesson.
Times ran deary, release the fury that no longer serves you.
Don't let the tension of nerves breaththrough.
Rest in a new awake, and don't forsake a new day's break. -marty.

Longing for the land of my lineage
I am dying here, in Beggar Country
Here, where fools act the wise
Pseudo Intellectualism steadily on the rise
Where the disease celebritism has took hold
Forced out the tried and true for the shiny yet old
Where the idiom
The more things that change, the more remains the same
Is unquestionably fact
I long for Ireland
I long to go back

Give me land that's green
And rolling countryside
Give me tide to rival hell's fury
And people that mean well, amid gales so dreary
I miss fog
Like that kicked up by the mire

Give me land that's hungry
Give me people that's tired

The wizened old man told me -
sustain the weary with a word
for many a one has none
to bring love and light
into the blight of their dreary days.

I asked which word
and through a wan smile
he said - you figure it out.

A dreary time of year.
It's cold
and colorless,
a monochromatic
void.
I can't see the stars.
The 14th is coming.
Ugh.
Reminding me of all
that I desperately want
but cannot have.
A perfect happy ending.

Is that danger in the distance?
Or do my eyes deceive?

****.

Like dark clouds
gathering above mountains.
Like how the young see their futures.

(Though it's not like the world hasn't been ending
this entire time.

In billions of years the sun will explode.
In hundreds, our planet will be just dust and stone,
and the bones of industry.
And at my rate
I'll self-destruct by sixty years of age.

But) what is this thing that sticks and stings
and irks
like a mirage?

Not the flavor of fingers dipped in deliciousness.
Not the freshness of a newborn babe.
Not the scent of flowers.
Not feet in a hot bath.
Not fumbling a lovers face,
frolicking through foxglove fields,
flitting a fiery frevo,
finishing first.

No,
none of that.

It's not a thing,
but a feeling.

Fear
Fear
Fear

And it sticks and stings
and irks,
like a mirage.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

Have you forecasted a glimpse into tomorrow's
Embarrassment and read the paper
Only to have the headlines say it is going to rain

That's how my life is like without the dough
Without the rainbows, petrichor
It is an endless flood of melancholic pain

****, it's winter