i am grateful of the answer
that i got

"it's okay, if things take time."
the real problem starts, when it stops.

In the depths of my soul, a question does arise.
When will I cease to weave verses about your guise?
For with every breath, your essence fills my pen,
And my words dance in rhythm, again and again.

I wake up to blue light
I see it when I close my eyes

frustrated and weighted by comparison
I filter my intensity
condense my personality
I show tongue and teeth but no failures or flaws

I see you in your squares, in all your glow
I want to see the dirt under your fingernails
want you to see me cry, my pores up close, counting your eyelashes
I don't want to see twenty pictures res of the same sunset
cascading down a feed that never fulfills
shades changed and tweaked at exposure
I am exposed ever day
but am I known
I want to see the world by your side
not through your phone
hear the sunsets reflect in your tone

I don't want to lose a bet with myself that I don't stare I don't scroll
lose my evening to a screen
my life to anxiety of how people see me
but I want to be seen

I want to know you beyond squares
and validation screams content for moments till I review my content
view myself in the eyes of another
a narcissistic shudder
I doubt and judge myself
wishing not to compare not to care
yet impulse is too lovable
addiction and algorithmic luring
habits savaged a daily instinct
to share
to show my life through squares

not just only tell me
to stop hating my body
teach me
how to do it
saying is easy than doing

Confabulation, rise and tell
more than mortal I may ken of wisdom.

The old con, with some trepidation
(feeling
of fear or agitation
about something that
may happen)

steps away from the vehicle, fabualting
holy truth provocation, possibly
even
probably, perhaps, even odds,
I was in violation, due to meditation,

white line fever. No, see.
All my roads have double yellow lines.

I guess I don't know why we don't
do somethings in the road…

I know I learned to say I know
when I am not guessing.

"Work hard" they said,
Push yourself to the limit;
"Go higher" their voices played,
Even when you've already reached the summit...

Have you hiked a multiple tiered waterfall?
The higher you go, the less people there are...
The scenes get more magnificent,
the cascading falls are more pristine...
But you've got to put in the work,
Hike, climb, crawl and you'll get there.

But once you get really high,
Past all the rest of the people,
You'd realise the best tier,
Might be back where you came from.

All that hard climbing,
And at the top...
There might be no view,
No falls,
Yes there is quiet
and the sound of the gentle bubbling river source.
But you've left the absolute best behind.

Just because you can push the limits,
Doesn't mean you have to.
Grasp the moment,
Enjoy the fruits of your labour,
Lest you lose them forever...
Learn when to stop.

Wrote this eons ago, tonight, once more,
spend some human capital, editing...
Something to think about
as we tuck ourselves in.

the young'uns keep on asking me for tips,
secrets, to this art, magical poetry gig,
as if I had any left unrevealed.  

recalled this old'n,
from a vintage poetry year,
as a suggestion,
a stating-starting place,
for young poets:

do not self-chain,
let the words take you where
they lead, write them up
for the rhyme is waiting,
in the heart chest deep down,
not on the screen.

I read you Goodnight Moon,
Falling asleep beside you.


<•>

People stop rhyming...

When first you overcome your fears,
And dare to put on paper your tears,
Give it up, set yourself free from the shackles,
Of thinking a rhyme is a necessity for a
Rooting tooting writing of a
**** good poem

If you feel lost,
Want to share the cost,
Feel not bossed,
By a newbie's need
to believe that if it rhymes
Everyone will like your poem
Just fine

And if you get past this stage,
And advance to the next page,
Do not think that writing down a sentence of
Your mind's first up, innermost thoughts,
Is something that will make you
Less lost, heralded, worthy of a parade,
And be blessed with an A  
In your Teacher's pet grade book

My heart broke.
I feel bad.
I feel sad
Cause my man/woman left me
And I hope
Someone kicks his or her ***

That Ain't No Poem Neither...

And if you can't help but complain repeatedly
How life ***** and you're feeling blue
extremely indiscreetly,
Don't make me try on your scribblings
intimately indiscriminately,
Read a million, even wrote a few myself

You think you can write?

Then employ a word outside your comfort zone,
Go it alone,
Write just four sentences that will make
The hopeful reader stand up and you,
Twice as much, and shout

Hallelujah *******.

Work. Poetry is work. Hard work.
Don't fret. But, think on it.
Let it come easy, then let it rest,.
Then spend days editing every comma,
And when you love it so much,
You are chest busting bursting,
Why have you not pressed Send already?

Have the sweetest dreams.
In the morning, when you but awake,
A poem will be aborning in thy mind,
And dare I say it, you will find a new freedom
In free verse.
(I know you will slip in a rhyme or two,
I can't help but do it too)

G' nite!