Is this soliloquy fun?
Of good men, I'd like to meet just one,
Isn't snivelling fun?
There's a comedic part of this,
Inner whinese is a lovely chick,
How do oldies get proactive?
Soliloquy of an old woman,
To whom do you reach a hand?
You got the best of men,
I got the worst of men....
This is a soliloquy of one,
Isn't snivelling fun?

To be inspired to create-
And per chance to inspire others-
Is either a grueling task
Where one must whip their own mind into motion
Like a stubborn mule
Or else it strikes as lightning
That can only be cast by the gods
And when it strikes it is exhilarating,
All-consuming and the epitome of creation;
Inspiration that is spontaneous,
An unfaithful geyser of sudden epiphany,
Often produces the shortest yet strongest results,
The being blessed by it cast into a conscious sleep
Where all thought and movement are otherworldly;
These works of divine intervention are
The cornerstones of human art so rare and lucky to have
As there is moderation in art as there is moderation in
All things, including moderation and inspiration:
On the other plate of the scales of Lady Justice
Is inspiration that has been dredged up from the ground;
It is liquid gold, crude; it does not shine
And it requires energy to obtain the very power we seek,
The subject work is clawed at until it is laid bare
Then robed and disrobed over and over again
Until the creator finds a fitting garment
And in this process the creator discovers a loving hate
Over the object which they have put such effort into,
That is still not nearly as fine as the works of sudden art,
Yet it is the Apple of their Eye nonetheless….
Once obtained, forced inspiration can be
More inspiring than that of the spontaneous inspirations;
A creator who has endeavored to struggle with inspiration
Is someone who can lead by example-
Where not everyone will be favored by the gods
And be given sudden wisdom and thought-
Anyone can ponder for hours on end
Until the train strikes them and the coal engines'
Fire is stoked to peak capacity by tedious effort;
Those who drive hard have opened minds and
Are more motivated than those who already have
A single goal to achieve: After divine inspiration
Has been carried out, what more is there for the
Creator to do if the gods do not
Favor them again?
In such ways do inspiration flow,
Quick and strong as lightning, here then gone,
Or steady as a slow stream, a lasting current
Which results in a slowly built and driven creation:
For those who are blessed with instant inspiration
Congratulations! Enjoy it while it lasts!
And for those who work beyond countless hours-
Congratulations to you, as well, for your dedication
And willpower so inspirational.

Do you think I could make it?

No one's watching me right now...
I'm outside and there aren't any guards

I don't even have to show up for another thirty minutes
No one would even think to look for me until then

I could just run off through the trees
And never come back

I could go on the road north
(Probably by hitchhiking)
And be in the international city
Where no one would find me

Why should I stay here?
My peers taunt me
And treat me like a contagion
Those in charge of us
Find me to be a troublemaker
And exclude me from groups for it
And I'm always bored with our work
I finish hours before the day is out

I could just leave this island
And never come back

....I could do it...

....they'd catch me
I can't get off of the base
Without climbing over razor-wire topped fences
Or swimming over open water fully clothed
And if I tried the gate
The gaurd would easily stop me

I could hide inside the complex
But when they've realized I've escaped
The military police will be called
And they will comb the base
Cornering me until I'm surrounded

I'm going to be released in one year, anyways.
I can make it one more year, can't I?

Can I?

I don't have another choice,
Unless someone were to help me
Sneak a sailboat into my escape route

Hold on, girl
It's only one more year

Wait, am I late for class?
I've got to get back
Before they notice that I'm gone

Death
is
the
Confession of
when the past
comes back
to haunt

Hear this beloved river, in halcyon days
I was loyal to this majestic tree, I am attached,
to the sun I often spoke how loving
the tree is to me, and how eager I too am
to transfer sun's boons to my object of adoration.

Each season did visit us, with a  message
different, and I gathered this with joy:
The tree is a book of nature for all to read
and get exhilarated by the poems colorful
that speak in metaphors the tree invent
with water from  it's heart and sun's fire
working the magic only a tree is capable of
to show us as  flowers, fruits or  seeds that, attract
satiate, drive to the pinnacle of aesthetic delight
at times  create forests of future,with a vision too.

I am just a word, with a limited meaning I hold,
in the book of the tree ,that contains millions like me
my unconditional love to the tree is my fulfillment,
in return he loves every word that make his poem complete.

We were in love all through the time I was green,
the day I wore  yellow, got crinkled at the ends,I began
to think of you, river, with a devotion unknown until then,
though you a silver ribbon, was in my eye view , singing a song
of mirth flowing towards the unknown, imagined in our dreams

Our lives, at turns take directions that are not known
the tree once all I have is now from my world detached
flying down from the branch now a freedom I enjoy
receive me on your bellowing bed of water, comfortable
Let's flow together to the beloved destination,you've in mind.

Soliloquy.
Entertaining
Ramblings.
Encapsulated
Nuptials
Disclosi­ng
Immortality
Present
In between
Temporary
Youth.

Dear 17 year old me,

You'll fall in love with a boy this year that will bring you as much happiness as pain.
You'll fall in love with his eyes, and the dimples in his smile,
And dear girl you will cry when the loneliness of his departure makes the innermost of you empty and aching.

I would tell you to run now, that when your friend tries to give you his phone number, to turn her down.

But in this pain, five years later, five years of the highest highs and the lowest lows, as I ache from the innermost of me and feel empty, in this pain I tell you do not run.

Without him, you will not have a million poems, you will not have some of the best nights of your life. You will not sleeplessly wonder what you've done wrong, or sleepily whisper your "I love yous" into his ear.

And what is love without heartbreak?
What would I be without him?

Humor me, little past self. Fall in love with him. Write poems about his eyes, write letters to him with no end. Love him. Lose him. Fight him. Love him again.

And then come back as me, twice as strong and twice as weary.

You won't regret it.

Love, you at 21.

The soliloquy of the night,
what we think as
falling stars and meteors,
make time and space immaterial
in the transmission of pain across light years.

Sitting here alone, a sentinel
to pain's interplanetary travel,
and witness of it transforming
in  to other forms, eloquent,
I hear them when my eyes,
acquire a sense, primordial
receive the dark waves
of pain in my veins
a volcano palpitating to blow up
in to  fireworks of emotions.

Everywhere eyes could travel, is filled
by night, thick, gooey, agglutinated;
then the meditative darkness,
dreams up a beam of  gentle light,
out of its deep transcending yearning,
to speak to itself,to get  an alchemy work on that pain
then, the pain itself becomes a haunting journey with words
this ,is how  my love, my songs
in the midnight of my lonely soul, are born.