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Tom Stodulka Jun 2018
Arguments, anger, frustration.

Conflict, mediation, meditation.

Today it’s all about our cortex, our right brain, your left brain.

Our amygdala, your feminine side, someone’s masculine side.

Maybe even the bright side.

Who is right, who is wrong.

Onwards, backwards, forwards,

Glass half full, too often these days the glass is empty.

Relationships are strained, pressures too great.

The *** boils over and over.

A fire burns into the very soul. Too much gets destroyed. The damage is done.

Things are certainly inflamed as people are enraged and anger reins.

How are you travelling?

What are your goals?

Common sense, like Paradise, lost.

Love is lost and sometimes re-found if good fortune favours you and maybe the brave.

Children suffer; best interests I hear you say.

But does anyone really understand?

For too many it is all about me, me, me.

Sadly, it is all about agendas and egos, it is all about me, me, me.
From 'Storm Clouds & Silver Linings; My Journey' by Tom Stodulka.
Sethnicity Mar 2018
Those who choose to dig deeper
must be willing to accept the dirt as truth
and the mess as proof
The only resolve is sharing tha loot
with those who seek not to be aloof  
those who can recycle  
improve reuse
Otherwise your pursuit becomes futile and vanity in roots
That holds you trapped in a place that never bore fruit.

Like a Pirate
Tied to a ship
who's sunken into
frozen winter drifts
Yelling at everyone who passes by
Uneffected Bitter Colder Less Productive
An Ivory Tusk Burned in private on public telivision
What is gained in the retelling and redistribution of historic ills should always be measured by the need and desire to cultivate future enrichment and wisdom from the source not fashioned into a rusted sword to beheld in anger and revenge...
That is to say the value in revitalizing history is never found in giving it teeth but giving it light and understanding.
Shu hang Dec 2017
We were one, we were a team
Now you're gone, never to be seen
I see you every night in my dreams
I'm empty now, but you're happy, it seems.

I thought that I did everything right
Until I saw your message that night
Am I wrong or am I right?
Should I have put up more of a fight?

After all this time and now it's over
So hard to deal with all this when you're sober
Maybe I should go sit in the rain
With a pill and some ***** to numb my pain.

Don't want to talk, I just need time
To realise that you're no longer mine
Have to figure out what I do next
The next girl I find will just be for ***.

I feel emotional and physical strain
Losing myself, I'm going insane
See your face and I know that I'm dreaming
Wake in the night, can't breathe and I'm screaming.

If it's not my stomach, then it's my head
3am heart racing, that feeling of dread
Lately I just don't feel like me
Vision all cloudy, just wish I could see.

Each day I try so hard to pretend
My whole body feels broken, just wish it would mend
Right now it's difficult for me to carry on
I'm trying not to break, I'm trying to be strong.

Standing here shaking, on the grass
whispering to myself, 'this too shall pass'
Earphones in, drowning out the voices
that are in my head, along with other noises.

What I need is to forget about you
To change my scenery, to change my view

I can't give in to this depressing mood
I need meditation and solitude.
Terry Collett May 2017
It begins
with dull morning
light through slits
in shutters.

It ends with moon's
bright gleam
and smile
and my doze
of a sleep.

In between
the getting through
the upward climb
and downward fall
and collapse or
half built up
and left undone
or incomplete
and failings
at my feet.

Books opened
but closed
page marked
with print of Picasso.

Music on the radio
half listened to or not
let slide
into the room
as I sit watching
the cat lick its rear end
or birds on the feeder
swinging to and fro
why? I don't know.

It begins as it ends
two slices of being
like slices of limp bread
with a filling
of dull life
like cheap meat
in railway sandwiches
years ago.

I go on
why?
I don't know.
MEDITATION ON A LIFE.
Kewayne Wadley Oct 2016
Her door was the sanctuary to inner peace; a sudden enlightenment
Engaging the candle of lit eyes.
Mindful to the calm hush; Disappearing in self.
Body, Mind, Soul.
Beside her door there was a lake wide awake with open ears.
I stood there Absorbing her wisdom.
A depth of kindness with each interchanging current.
I learned to speak without words. Connecting thine eyes with hers.
All else was swallowed; Exhaling, then breathing again.
Fingers extinguishing all else that threatened a light shone from her.
Her Eyes.
She'd shone me courage, grasping my hand. Entwining her path with mine.
I bowed to her and her alone in guided mediation.
At that moment there was no need for mirrors, realizing that she was my reflection.
My spirit animal, my refugee.
She taught me the language of her heart, being shown in silence.
I journeyed a place ears would have no use, my tongue becoming a stranger.
A total embodiment to the gift of her and her alone.
A beautiful lesson in poverty; Clinching my hands in prayer.
                                                         ­     Blessed in her presence
Debra Lea Ryan Sep 2016
Seek  Sunsets
Hear Sky Speak
Stay Connected
Feel Complete.

DLR
04/09/2016
Andrew Wenson Feb 2015
Yes, that is an abstraction of the landscape.
Yes, you have achieved some creative control.
Showcase your efforts! Open their minds!
Tear the mother-******* roof off!

Little God-man runnin' the cycles
To each his own script
His own prescription
Little God-man running the show
Master of Ceremonies
The human bridge

You must throw back each perch
and wait for the fattening;
You'll need that for the next act.....

Keep your strength up.
Mediation or expression or demonic possession?
Whichever model works in the given moment.
Poems by Dayana Dec 2014
poetry roots me,
I am not thinking ahead.
I am here!
That is enough
when I write
It's enough to be here
and no where else anymore
not fantasying
the more i fantasize
the more it eats away at the energy that I have
for my heart desires poetry
it desire spontaneity above all
but how can anything be spontaneous
if i've already thought it all
so I stay
I stay here
in the moment
of the poem forever
Until I cannot possibly write anymore
dreading the ending of my poem.

— The End —