sometimes I could feel my speech as vast as a desert
where all the sand grains wouldn’t have been enough for me to speak the oasis of my mind
and other times
I could feel my speech as a desert-
infertile and empty,
spitting words like a camel,
knocking on a door
the reply was never home.
small letters for your naive soul
because no matter how big and meaningful words could be
words can't seem to fit in your small uncaring heart
The master was known to be so very kind
and spoke directly to one's heart and mind.
He would communicate by saying things
that touched deeply on one's soul strings.
All were amazed at the depth of wisdom
which was given with a sense of freedom.
Sitting in his presence was an art in itself
where one could imbibe things of the Self.
This knowledge seemed to be freely given
with the end result of enlightenment driven.
All seemed to be elevated to an awareness
of direct experience by the grace of fairness
radiating from the presence of the master
who just sat there and spoke not of disaster
but of good tidings that were for the benefit
of those concerned in body, mind and spirit.
At times when he spoke he gave a sample
from life situations inspired by example
to cause one to reflect, wonder at the depth
of direct knowledge in which he was adept.
He would also relate some inspiring story
taken from certain scriptures or of history
that was for the most part so full of meaning
to make the message given more appealing.
Like the One who spoke in parables long ago
he would so speak for those around to know.
Such were the words of the master as spoken
which had the effect on any who were broken
uplifting and helping them all there to realise
that hope had replaced despair in their eyes.
The words of the master are keys to freedom
that open one's heart and mind with wisdom.
Written early in 2918.
My heart says "Hello."
My heart wants to say "I love you"
My heart whispers
"It's nice to see you again"
My heart is crying
But it still sings for you
"How lovely you are, my one and only"
It says "Stay"
"Stay, for I have no one else"
I want to be a good writer,
I'v practiced time and time again, but the thing is
writing isn't like math or science
you can't just copy solutions to the same problems
it has to be original.
Something never seen before, something that makes
the crowd hold their breath,
something that makes you think
maybe theres more.
Putting feelings into words
to try and make a difference in at least someones life
but constantly doubting that anyone will care,
Always trying to help someone else
because you cant help yourself
and hoping that someone will help you
but knowing no one can,
trying your hardest to love others
when you can't even love yourself,
constantly thinking what others think
because your own opinion doesn't matter to you
but hope one day it will matter to someone else,
trying to prove you're strong
when all you think of yourself is weak and sad
and all those other names people put in your head,
you put in your head,
writing is not about proving people wrong,
its about proving yourself wrong.
sometimes, we all wish for the world to just stop spinning for a while; that we remain sixteen or nineteen forever — just dreaming of painting the marmoris of the sea and seeing it displayed in a museum. just dreaming of browsing bookstores — each book sinking into your effleurage, until you see that cream-colored cover with your name on the spine. just dreaming of hearing a song from a stranger's car, and call it your own. just dreaming of creating stories out of piano keys. just dreaming of discovering a star.
at least, if the world stopped spinning today, a dream can remain as a dream forever. it will never be another thing we messed up. it will never be another dream we lost.
Inspired by Ted's line in HIMYM, "The longer i put off starting my own firm, the longer it can remain a dream and not something i ******* up at."
It’s kinda crazy
How you talk like maple syrup
And think like a long winter
Your words bite
Like stinging sleet
I find cuddling by the fire
With a cup of coco
And blankets piled high
But shouldn’t I be worried
About the storm raging outside?
You make me afraid to say no
By putting words in my mouth
That don’t belong
Until I’m choking
On the words
You want to hear
I can never be a great writer
Not to everyone
But to me
I am good enough
They are my words
They can never be anyone else's
My poems are mine to consume
And if I share them with the world
The consequence is that they may not be loved
And that's okay
Because they are not meant for the world
They are meant for me
To assemble my buzzing mind
I have been writing a lot. But only for me. I have to convince myself that my words matter too. Maybe not to you, but to me. I hope someday it matters to me.