I have a thought that tickles down my soul bank of thoughts. It's a thought that dilutes all the sweet taste of all I thought. One that gaols the psyche and maneuver in the midst of all my anxiety.
I would have uttered it to my close companion, but the thoughts of being ridiculed consistently quenched out the desire to communicate.
Can I find a pure one who can listen and not tell the world my greatest fear? The dependent one is but an atom in the midst of particles. I need to dig deep till I find one who can bear my world with me.
When you want to write something but the words won’t come to you and you wonder if it’s about vocabulary issues or just personal issues. You ask yourself, why the heck can’t I write this down when all I think about is how I wanted to see the words inked (maybe, just maybe, it’d help me forget). You start to doubt the integrity of your craft, you ask your muse and get nothing but a sad look (like, somber and defeated and sorry altogether because you can’t) You have a lot of words running through your mind but none has made it past your pen, none has made it through that wall. And then you ask your heart why. Why do you do this to yourself? Is it not better if you keep it inside your head? To not have any concrete evidence that such thing existed (wouldn’t it be easier to forget then?) You look at your reflection and see your past self, asking you to please stop. Stop, stop punishing yourself with memories. You must remember that there is no sin in loving someone even if you are not loved in return. Lovers are not sinners regardless of any circumstances, love is the only religion we can all agree on (funnily enough, love has punished a lot of people – exhibit A: You). You look at the words you’ve written before and the shadow of the people behind them. Will this be the same? You haven’t forgotten any of them but time has salved the pain and all you have now is a hollowness you can’t quite explain. You look at the paper in front of you and think of how you’d be reading the words you’ll eventually pen down in the hopes that it’ll balm your wounded heart. Will time be enough to let you have a peace of mind? You look at him and you know the answer (tomorrow you write, but not today)
Standing high on the mountain side I take in the first breath of morning It seems so much more refreshing here Maybe it is the altitude that we are at
The aroma of my morning brew reaches my nostrils The steam a reminder of the time of year As I survey the pristine landscape my thoughts wander to home Father would be at the farm readying for harvest
He too would be having his first cup of java I can hear mother in the background reminding him of something Soon he would be culling the herd for winter meat Isn’t that what people say I do, cull
Yet for me gazing down the hillside it does not feel the same Sure I do this with my fellow men to survive But it feels like to me that we are taking them out in their prime That somehow it is a travesty
Back at some headquarters they will remind that others will follow We are only doing what needs to be done That much good will come of what we will do today And in that is my quandary
I see them fall some younger, some older, some not at all Those few spared to provide seed for new generations That last gasp is the same regardless of their age The word “timber” signaling their death knell
That which took decades if not centuries to grow Will be felled in a matter of minutes The tree which has lived longer than I now dead A seedling placed where it so proudly stood
Dear You, Yes you the one who broke me; into pieces, Tiny pieces.
Expecting someone like you in front of my door. Without you knocking Without you asking Without me knowing that was the last time. The very last time, that I would see you, that I would talk to you, that I would laugh with you.
Everything was over looking through the memories; Sad, sad memories of you.
Philosophical epistemology strumming adventures Albeit, coherent mental decoding stratifications structured Supposedly our world rests in our minds, revolving knowledge An entwine of conceptual abstract flowing within oneself The mind in the “I” the “I” a reality lived in my experiences George of Leontini, a mine mind approving solipsism exploring innatism Imaginative insights that nothing exists, the secrets secreting secrets The knowledge behind the veils that remains un-communicated A reverse of normality and known existences, moral disposition Hypothesis of depersonalizations, adventures of self internalization Justifications for what lies outside the Medulla Oblongata Skepticism and just alternatives to western philosophy Subjective unapproved experiences only robust in one’s mind Descartes abstraction of inner experiences, reciprocated paradigm Intuitively, perceived lived formulations of "Cogito Ergo Sum" Psychological conscious undoubted individualistic thoughts Berkley explored perspectives that physicality is an embodiment of the mind The mind a decoding visualizer, that encompass the non-existent An idealism marriage of ‘metaphysical’ and epistemological philosophy The intense esoteric “dualism” verses the fiery “monism” reality Mind boggling differentiated truths bleeding with blinking unresolvable hypothesis The jiggered methodological, streamlining the un -logic sequential beats
carefully i write words on your heart so that you will not forget our moments of gazing upon each other’s naked skin and slowly devouring your lips as you taste mine, i am ravished by your passion uttering your name breathlessly moving with you until we are like the dead. ~rh 13 March 2013
What is life but a series of events and coincidences? You meet people and forge relationships over hot coals. You experiance things that either make your or break you. You learn to love or you lust to hate. You submerge yourself in empathy or you can drown in the dismal depths of apathy.
It is a battle of volition over the grueling Wheel-of-Chance that is fate. It's a blessing of the soul or a slap upon the face. It's the straight and narrow path you walk, or the seedy, sinuous street you've been made to scour. It's a chance to find yourself or lose it all amongst the masses. It is either your Reckoning, or your one chance at Redemption.
What is life, but a game of craps, or just a total crapshoot? What is living, but one more day alive, or one more biding your time? What is this thing that we call breathing? Is it nothing more than tasting air, or eating off of someone else's plate? What is the big meaning? Will we ever find a righteous answer, and will it leave us blind?