My heart is like a snow laden car
Freezing in the bitter cold

Left to stand in a parking lot semi-alone

Clearing my windows I depart
Most anxiously to feel the need

And yet as in each morning, each winter
When the days are dreary and quick to dark

There is a frost to be found all around

And so my hesitant in heart
Is to turn over and start

Warming only by this, the end of this drive

For my heart is like a snow laden car
Covered and only to be seen in part

When cleared away the beating heart
Is too warm too late and frozen still

Truthfully - This poem began as a thought, "my car is only warm by the end of my drive"

If you cannot bend

Twist or appreciate them

Or use them in a more patient way

I want nothing

For you have nothing

And no power over me

For words are more than anything

More than the abstract mind in all of it madness

More beautiful than the mountains

And more volatile than the sea

Are such words

If you let them

And I do

Be so

And impulse of words

The expression you are as you say you are is not true if you actually are not as you say you are.


Some days are the sun
Some days are the moon
And some days are the stars which burn out in-between

Jobira 4d

Thousands of stars
may shine in the sky
My heart only dances
When I catch your eyes

@jobiranyc (11/18/2017)

A quick scribble in the moment.

As snow descends unto the earth
With a calming, soothing, effortless ease

So you my friend should be like the snow
And settle the horizon beyond the trees

No snowflake was ever meant to last
Or to live to see the newborn leaves

For we are uniquely designed by God
As unique and beautiful as these

Not into special snowflakes. But everyone is uniquely designed. What we do to our selves after that is up to us. (:

Cold candy
Pop rocks bursting in the morning hail

My mouth a mess and mind untested
Tired and still

The morning reaches out to me
But nothing gets better at this time of day

I wish my words could carry me
Like I carry a them, away

Nothing feels worse.

The lack of the eternal
  Within my own eternity
    Has never bothered me
      Before this
        Before today
          I cannot am
            I cannot want
              I will not be

There's no turning back

I look at my desk.
And, I find Index Cards, lined paper, and, Notebooks.
I don't remember putting them there.
I see red pens, Blue Pens, and sharpies.
Actually, all types of writing utensils.
Apparently, she doesn't discriminate.
On this desk, I find scribbles and Poems.
Articles of writing that belonged to me.
But, they are not mine.
I don't remember writing these poems.
Yet, my Name is on them.
No, they are not mine.
She wrote them.
They belong to the person who,
looked back at me in the Mirror yesterday.

She wrote them a lifetime ago.

Sometimes I look back to my old words and wonder if I really wrote them.
11.12.17 6:20 pm

Searching for the truest of words
The quest of me
Is a sermon for an audience of one
Or two perhaps?

Just a little thing.... (;
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