Beliefs aren't only in the hands we trust,
But more importantly, in the heart we hold.

Hope is that part of you
That goes to sleep knowing
You'll awake to a tomorrow.

It's the piece of your heart
That still loves
Even after a ruthless heartbreak

It's the part of your soul
That stays faithful
When you feel you've lost it all

The part of your mind that finds the
Light when you're trapped in
A dark tunnel

That is hope.
That is what's worth
Looking forward to.

And when all hope is lost,
Know that it never really is,
Because you fall asleep
Knowing you'll wake to a
Tomorrow.
And that is the beauty of hope.

rain finally falls,
pitter-patter,
the heavens burst,
splitter-splatter,
it pours,
drip-drop
down,
noisily,
making itself known,
and thunder growls,
to tell me,
'I'm here!'.

You aren't the first to walk these roads.
These lonely, gravel trails  covered in broken glass and nails.
Every time a rickety car breaks down and fails
it leaves it's wreck along the side of highway,
just watching the traffic pass them by.
They are monuments to every effort we have made and given up on.
They are why you MUST try.

Whether you live in a town or a city,
there are going to be some pretty ****** moments in life.
It takes a lot of strife to get a small amount of satisfaction
but the chain reaction
of doubts and down 'n' outs
is drowned out by the radio static and
I don't mean to sound dramatic but
I understand.

I just want you to know
you're not going to go on your own this time.
Every moment spent crying is time that could better spent trying.
If I told you I don't have these moments,
well, I'd be lying.
Because I've felt the color drain from my face
as I try to remember the last place I left my courage
because it's not at arm's reach this time.
Sneers and eyerolls draw spirals around me
like I'm at ground zero of an M.C Escher painting.

I can rephrase suffering so many ways.
But at this pace, I still can't outrun my own thoughts.
I find my courage at last
but there is no sticking place to ***** it to,
so I just say "***** it."
I can't say I knew it would end this way,
but if all this poem comes down to
is a whiny teenager trying to be edgy
than I guess I...

As I light this third one,
your face came up to my mind.

I suddenly wished that your love is like smoking.
When I desired to let in the smoke,
the addictive nicotine of your love
inside my pitiful tired airbags,
I could easily tell myself
to exhale the white
lung filtered ghost
out of my system,
out of my life.

But your love doesn't work that way.
Love is inking your name on my skin
deep through my bones (if it can).
Living in me, thousands of needle bites
In each second piercing through who i am
for the rest of my breathing years.
And through the pain, your name is complete.
Yet when you leave,

your name, your love,
will remain
in blank ink
on my young
cigarette-fumed
skin.

Rhythmic beats,
Rain drops fall.
-listen to them all

Steady in pace,
Not missing a sound
Hitting my roof,
Hitting the ground.

Wind like an orchestra,
Howls from the side.
Rain crashing on my window
Like hitting a cowbells side.

Trees shaking,
As drops hit their leaves.
Making beautiful tones,
Sounds of tambourines.

Rhythmic sounds peacefully there
Painting pictures as I sleep,
All night I could stare.

Staring in the mirror gave my soul a minute to breathe. Remembering times when I wanted to be anything but normal never wanting to grow old. As the lines in my face only deepen, so do the thoughts of a once younger man fighting to be different. Now as my age sets in a bit, I hear the thoughts of once me.
I snicker a bit, thinking "you never knew what you were thinking man."
Now I embrace these new thoughts,  thoughts of an older man. A man who has been down many roads and seen many seasons. A man who now only wants to be normal, blend in with the crowd and be listened to. I need not to be heard with my loud voice, or seen with my rebel look. I just need to be normal,  thankful when I can live normal.  Thankful for my senses allowing me permission everyday to see, hear, feel, smell, and taste life. Thankful for feeling love, through family and supportive friends. For the special connection I feel and am grateful for each day when I see my lovely wife. Grateful to be able to call my "normal" life, "my life." Grateful to learn from my past, to see my future and never to waste a single minute of life's precious minutes wishing I had anything else.

A blank canvas, inspires a painter
A blank paper, inspires a poet
From a blank we can draw inspiration
They are not blank, but an empty space
Untouched with the creative juices
To be filled with different moods of hues
And written on, with the most fertile thought
From a blank, we can draw a conclusion
Inspired to come up with most enchanted sketches
As artistry is the masterstroke, drawn on a blank
An abstract idea sketched, to inspire*





© Amitav (Radiance)