Let me start out by saying- that I have absolutely nothing to say Now maybe that should be a bad thing and, don't get me wrong it most definitely is for poetry. however- not for everything else. I don't have anything to say anymore because I've said it all, all I want to, Needed to say. and I can't seem to want to write because my writing is supposed to help me think and organize clumps of words
and lines into stanzas and stanzas into- well,
but its gone, I asked myself where the magic went and the only conclusion is that the magic wasn't there to start, my emotions were. my fuel fracked and burned up because the poetry helped me live.
im tired of the conflicts erupting between us all let's get our act together and answer the needed call the politics and policies are in grave need of revision why can't we get together to avoid the mad collision throw away all the so call facts and see what's going on quit throwing your temper into the fray and creating a nation that's gone...
Humming by the rivers run My feet at a loss for words most forward Nothing is left in the wake of everything And I’m certainly not bored But stop And by the meadow besideme you may see Like water or breath Like droplets of sunlight behind concrete cold Or faith and love and homeruns high I need this time like the trees need the sky And in not knowing I Find that I cannot breathe in this sort of life
I came upon the page and thought to write of who I am and who I was. I thought it best to explain the things that people saw when they looked my way. How I came to be what I see in my own reflection. I gave benefit of doubt that they would or could then have some understanding. Perhaps naivety was my flaw? The more I wrote the fewer looked. Is it simply me or the openness that makes it so? Is it what they see or the not wanting to really know? Could it be that honesty is a frightening thing? Am I better off to keep secrets and carry a facade? Would then perhaps more be interested in who I am? Would they then have the time to stop a while? Or is it simply having seen they see no value? And yet it is that I still need to fill the page... and to hope someone will see me and stop a while.
To be noticed. To be known. To connect. Not by some pretence... but for who you are... not what they gain.
Our days roll away like dropped coins. Individual moments are continually lost, Often never to be reflected upon again. But the epochs of a full life remain, Safeguarded by the cushions of our couch, Waiting for when we are in need of a treat.