What if children are actually the wisest beings on the planet?

And the state in which we call "the development period" before they learn to talk is when they are trying their best to convey all of the secrets of life and death to you?

All children can justifiably do this because their "innocence" as we perceive it is actually the profound wisdom to come of living an entire lifetime that still exists within them. Hence, they have left the troubles of this world behind and still remember passing images and details of what happens after this.

When they figure out they can't actually speak to you for some reason, they then begin to act in the most candid manner to demonstrate their knowledge. And because perhaps, you too have experienced another life or even multiple lives before the one that you're living, you catch on to bits and pieces of what they are demonstrating and appreciate that.

Then, since these little ethereal beings are learning to be human again and you're the first people they meet and spend the most time with, they want to identify with you.

So the beginnings of what we call "personality" are really just the congenial memories to the secrets of the universe shared between parents and children. And eventually, the child grows up and.forgets all their secrets, only to remember them as they live life once again. There's gotta be something to that adage where people refer to the elderly reverting back to their childlike selves, after all!

Inspired by the purity and innocence of a child who could not speak trying to get her mother to dance and play at the Barber shop
Eve Jan 2

Real words, real thoughts, real references,
What I mention is the truth,
Never to be left questioned or misinterpreted.
The form of performance;
Proper and critique,
I'm forced to sit upright; think straight,
Play pretend with my so called "friends"; act like the person I am.
Disclosed and cold,
Isolated, yet engaged,
A person who unremarkably achieves just anything.
I'm one of the ordinary, but self-expression is considered extraordinary.

K Balachandran Oct 2017

To each passionately
embracing wave,
the sea reveals her heart's secret.
The sonorous chant of each wave,
subliminally absorb the whole truth,
which doesn't get in to  the net
of any word, however dexterous!

Grasp the essence of the profound silence within,
what's in the ocean depth and this are one and the same!

Eve Oct 2017

People always say, there's hope for everyone.
Their intentions may seem unrealistic when you hear them because you've morally convinced yourself that anyone but yourself telling you that there is beautiful, pure happiness in the future approaching, is blantaly wrong.
That's not true now, isn't it?
What you believe is what's moral in your mind,
Your mental capacity can only obtain so much information they say!
Well, I believe that everyone has this intensity in their writing and whichever ideas flows through your mind, leaves you to determine the rest of your narrative.
The hope, the optimistic view in the near outlook is merely coming closer, whether you notice it now or spot it when it's revealed to you.
All these past poems you've written; reflection, transform your belief system and moral mindset to the absolute best version of anything ever written.
Embrace pride, genuine astonishment for the several different articles you've written that has gain no public eye,
Show them your capability,
Your purpose as to how you specifically were sent into this world somehow and when you pass, your narrative; mark, footprints will be traced everywhere, from everyone.
That's key, that's real, that's the truth for you and the targeted youth audience.
Don't believe half of the misleading messages shown throughout almost all, if not all, then undoubtedly all social media platforms.
There's always judgement roaming around like there are brigands discovering new ways to get around stealing from others.
You can either stay silent like one of those witnesses when asked inquiry about the situation or you can choose to inevitably cite the culprit; to be the one that speaks even when not spoken to.

A particular viewer, a reader of mine recently enjoyed my previous poem, "Home". He told me that it was very profound, deep and consisted of intensity. I want you all to feel something from my poems, whether it takes an effect while reading it or you get an epiphany soon after you're almost about some reading the poem. Intensity is the drive and reeling for readers, it's targeted to your own audience and remarkably constructs the emotions that your viewers expierence.
Eve Oct 2017

The place where the atmosphere consists of main outbreaks,
Whether the dishes weren't done or the floors weren't mopped correctly,
Something so small can effect the gross unification of "family".
Feeling like you can't necessarily express yourself,
Leaves you to feel drowned out by the many emotions that flood your mind at the worst of times,
It allows your feelings to grow more and more profoundly erratic; anxious.
Allow me to go into full elaboration as to how I constantly maintain my well-respected position of a so called "good person" or complain about the many people who are just as careless as the majority of people nowadays who simply do not ask how I've been.
I've let days slip by,
Suddenly, I feel no difference in what occurred yesterday or really, no contrast in the feelings I'll most likely encounter tomorrow.
At home, mass mental destructions happens,
It's where I get pulled into a place where I'm just trapped in my own self, similar to the way I feel in school.
I don't know, it could possibly be causing my continuous feelings of nervousness whenever I'm surrounded by people,
Or it could merely be the fact of which, I haven't yet chosen a path or seen quite a way to go through and feel a protective environment around me.
These winter days are gradually approaching,
It's only a matter of time until my mind goes away like the sun at night,
These seconds, minutes, hours can patrol for what feels like perennial timings, but anticipation is what's really foreshadowing my shallow whole of a "home".

Angela Rose Oct 2017

Profound feeling for another
A caring, trying thing
Love is patient, love is kind
Love is wanting what is not mine

Love is giving and getting less
Love is never a second guess
To love is to give another all of you
It is holding nothing back

Love is a feeling you gain and you try to never lose
You keep love
You keep it and you lock it somewhere safe
And then you swallow the god damn key

I couldn't let go. And just say no, because I'm an addict and once I got into the flow there's no doubt that the ps4 went into rest mode. When the poem that I wrote for you was lost to the abyss I grew despondent and may have suffered paralysis a minute or two before this revision. Here I sit with a stale cigarette because it's been a while. And I'm not talented, so after reading your poems I've decided to steal your style. Then I made a decision to cut the lights, making the room dark. Because maybe if I shut off a sense or two my mind could begin to spark.

And quit berating me like a shark over losing that last thought. Even though I know you feel that kind of energy that I'm so desperately trying to lay bare naked for you to see so fucking unapologetically.

So once again I apologize for my intrusion. I'll try to keep it short and to the point and omit the confusion... Just let that raw spongy meat fill the sink like a blood soaked delusion. I'm like a fungus trying to find that tender feeling. The very same that's left me reeling. Congealing at the mouth for a minute or two until I let the tears run that had been concealed as if in a Sun fusion tomb.

And not to be rude but these first lines are garbage. I wanted to save that last one because at least there was some heartfelt flow. Not just rhymes and the due time of some clandestine woe. Here we go.. I can't do this. It's like the moment has passed because it got ruined. And now I can't get back to the place where I'm imagining your face or our palms interlaced...

And now my phone is dying. I'm scrambling to the charger deranged and out of place. I can't let the phone die then one more time curse the sky and wonder why. I won't take it as a sign that these words aren't meant to be written while I'm trying to remember only what the last one said like it needed this phony precision... Just acting crazy and coddling this vision like it's my baby. Like 7AM is a normal time to still be up. I don't know, maybe? Maybe it's because I've been thinking about you lately. And the thought of that had me in denial, lady. And look at me getting cocky with what I say. Like I can stand here and act queer and make sloppy jokes like that's okay!?

Maybe that's the reason why I can't sleep. Because I can't even hide my pride any more this time. I'm tired of rhyming. I just want to touch on what you used to tell me was a piece of me that was inspiring. I'd be lying if I said I have any of it left because any notion of that premise is so much less than deft. And here I go thinking I'm about to touch upon what's left in my heart when I know just how it will end but no idea where to start. Maybe it will come to me if I talk about dreams. Something innocent enough to dilute my own selfish reprieve.

What you meant to me.. Has me stricken with grief. Every word that I write feels like a giant hypocrisy. Every time that I think these thoughts I want to drown myself in my sleep.

And now I have that other poem that's going through my head but you have no ideas as to how it sounded or what it said. I described myself as a felon for what I did to you. How I stole your time for my own designs that much I know is true. But the truth of the matter is I can't stop the superfluous rush of rhyming words that want to come and they need to hush up. I'm trying to come from the heart. And all I can say is that I'm in a lot of pain just trying to relay... Trying to close my eyes and enter that flow state. For you I will.. I'm awake with my intent. It's almost eight but not too late for me to tell you just how I feel. If I try to rhyme it's not going to be right. It kills me inside that it's hard to fight. But I guess that's typical. Because I'd rather think of what to say next than be literal. Because I'd rather be a figurative criminal than dig deeper. I'd rather grow cynical than for once just face the reaper. I know my character when I despise my own reflection that alternates between this state and a newly found perception Because I'd rather be an outcast. Reject and misunderstood preacher than a disciple... and I'm my only rival.. But this isn't a confession to you and this digression isn't the Bible...

Just a predecessor to an elaborate truth and one at which I've been so uncouth. I see a black hole when I close my eyes. I know that I tell lies and hide behind alibies so my vacancies are my disguise. Now does that suffice for my fucking ego? Can I finally tell someone that I love just how hard it was to let go. How two years have passed and nothing feels so special because someone met tonight lead me to retrograde and that was heavy.. But it was more like an epiphany. It forced my pride and opened wide the holes I have inside. The very same that came from the time we said goodbye. When I forced your hand and took that stand and created a divide. I try and I try to convince myself that I miss the idea of you. But I'd be lying. I changed things up and pressed my luck but here's to trying. The stupid rhymes won't go away. They think it's safe. They think it's dignified, composed, and chaste. Whatever their reasons they fight being erased. And I guess that's the next wave of emotion I have to face..  

Even in a room with no-one around. I have to think about how it was you who lifted me into the clouds, and I in turn always brought you to the ground. I do believe the love we had was profound. I knew that you could speak to me without a sound.

And yet we still drowned, and I'm left shaking, still headstrong and rationalizing and faking. Still fucking rhyming even though this is the second poem in the making. How I managed to render the most precious bond I had forever forsaking it. What I'm left with to know is that I have no right after all this time to come into your life.

What I've learned is there's a difference between what you know and what you believe. In a moment of clarity I know what I've got is deserving. And then choose to believe in nostalgia and empty tears. Because Nissa, darling, it's been two years. And you're a new person in the moment I was here. Somehow I hope that one day you will read this little post-it note that means more to me than any wisdom or quote in the few passages here that aren't cunning or rote. It wasn't meant for many eyes to see. But I can't take this familiar loneliness haunting me. And there I go trying to connect synapses into the next day like it matters as time elapses
I lay here in bed with nothing to say but convey memories within my head. They don't fill me with dread, I reminisce with a soft version of sober ringing like the singing call of the dead. And though it was fleeting you will never leave me. So from the deaths that I've caused this to follow is what I'm bereaving. I might have been dreaming but I once was believing that all my deceit could prevent me from grieving. Like I don't already know that you're long gone and I'm still breathing. Like I don't sit here seething and still trying to rhyme or think of that last design. Like I'm not lying at all or that I haven't been crying. Washed up water methods and coping mechanisms may sedate me for a week. I don't want all of your love because for me it was enough knowing we were Nissa and Cedric.

I'm beginning to understand why they say home is where the heart is because I scream while I'm alone remembering and receive no catharsis. It's why I starve myself of necessary sleep to stay awake then soothe myself when I shake reflecting on mistakes. Now I only have to wonder about what you're doing. Because I won't reach out, ungluing and unraveling a door that's been shut when just a reminder of you washed me into a rut. It's why the ocean's waves are bringing me peace. They're consistency is what I have left to just cease and desist when I grow sullen and remiss. When I've now spent my night writing this. When I miss your kiss, but truly long for your echo. When I know I have to move on now but I won't let go. I love you. Just in case.. You didn't know.

I had to stop writing. I'll never understand why and part of me will be lying. But you won't see this anyway. And that's okay because I really didn't have much to say. Maybe I should have just said I miss you every day.
G Rog Rogers Sep 2017


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