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I’d like to have a talk with Time
Tell me its story
Why does it exist?
What’s in it for me?
Does it understand its power?
Does it even care?
Why is it so mysterious?
Why does it not share
What is coming tomorrow
And after that?
Who does it answer to?
Is God concerned that
Too many waste the time they have?
(I can sure relate)
Who uses time the best?
Whom does it appreciate?

I wouldn’t waste the time of Time
Nor run out its clock
I’ve got so many things to do
But  we should stop and have a chat
We would not just be passing time
It would bemore than that
We could unburden ourselves
Take stock of where we’re at
Have a story for all time
About when together we sat
So many, too many
So many gone
Men who fought for victory
But they lost
Their lives
Their loved ones
There’s nothing good about war
We, the people of the world,
**** each other
Repeatedly, regularly
It’s always going on somewhere
Since the beginning of time
Why can’t we all just get along?
I’m afraid we never will
Drew was much older than Cecilia
No matter, his love was pure
Cece didn’t view him as a father figure
She knew he was the right one for her
Look, Chaplin had Oona
Then there was Serge and Jane
It could happen, it did happen
It was love by any name

In the desert they would roam
They lived to hike
He was a gourmet
Who cooked for her at night
Over a nice rose, by candlelight
They would nuzzle
As the years turned into decades
They aged without fear

So judge ye not
For they have got
As tight a bond you’ll ever see
Evidenced by what each never takes off
A matching wedding ring
Anywhere else can be somewhere if you're
ready and wiling to go there.

thoughts on statues
(creeps in randomly)
stately
Innately inert
but
full of life.

We have become a family when
we realise that barbed and branded
goods are the enemy.

Fed on bacteria and fertiliser
sold as an appetiser
what the hell can the main course
be?

Goldsmiths
Buy one
die one
try one
they're delicious

And we start to mumble
Inaudible
stumble,
eat
Goldsmiths apple crumble,
go on
make yourself a pie.
Yes,
I am a poet.
I dream while awake,
expressing the ability
to heal with my words.
I have faith.
Poetry is my therapy.
My pen and my words
are my weapons,
of war,
of mass destruction,
of peace,
of love and happiness,
of friendship.
My pen,
is the commander in chief,
the director,
not a dictator,
with an accessible space,
and the key to the
nuclear weapon
i can direct it
to make war or peace,
just as I choose.
I got me a brush to
paint words with
melancholic overtone,
of ecstatic bliss,
for my thoughts to flow,
on the canvas,
with different shades
of colourful words,
time to dwell
and ponder
and meditate on life matters.
The issues of the mind,
and of what the heart feels,
i translate into reality.
The control of the united emotions
of my feelings and thoughts are in
the hand holding the pen to paint
the words of living in the canvas of life.
Poets have the power to make
the invisible things to manifest,
thoughts hidden and
not heard to have a face.
The secular world,
the whole cosmos,
the galaxy is at their command.
I am a poet,
I make the mind see the heart,
I make the heart of man flow
in ecstatic bliss.
To dream is unwritten poetry.
A poets joy lies in the portal
of the divine.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Get your poetry in line
Is it a sonnet? Does it rhyme?
Can you keep the proper time?
Does it bounce in your head off the walls of your mind?

Is it deeper than I'm seeing?
Tell me, what's its obscure meaning?
Is it simply whimsical?
Use your words like a maple tap, plunge the sharp end into you

...Well let me tell you silly idiot, silly critic, you're insidious!
You're not fit to critique what is pure and true and intimate
So tell me my dear patron, what do you construe?
When you dig for deeper truths, topical ones elude
There are somethings there that you don’t actually feel,
and there are some things you feel that
aren’t actually there
.
It’s to any’s curiosity
that Ive lost my grip
on reality’s terminology



Notes:
what does the word real mean? Your thoughts aren't  a thing but a concept, but we consider them real. They really happened.
Then... Is all concepted real? What if something's not physically real but i believe it's real?
Who can then tell me it's not reality.
My physical self is a trap,  physicality another bind. Your senses  make you think this sensory  world is all there is.
The places my mind goes are real to me.
feelings , the  hands  that hold up the pathways my heart wanders upon;  and thoughts the boat  my mind uses float in a vastness.
A dot in the middle of it all is consciousness, an existing  that means so much Less.
And  I no longer consider reality, my reality.
What is life and what is love?
What is death and what is pain?
To all those who live, what is freedom?
And to all the living corpses, what is sacrifice?
What is honesty, faith and compassion?
What part of it is being human?

Why begin wars when you can end them?
Why follow others when you can walk your own path?
If memories exist why do you forget them?
But if memories are painful then why not erase them?
Why please society when you can be yourself?
Why is being human the most difficult challenge?
"What is life and what is love?" This first line was in my head for days like it wanted me to continue and so I came up with this short poem. Though I'm not happy with the second verse.
Let silence be your teacher
your friend and healer
I’d rather write than speak
My pen is always responsive
My ink doesn’t judge my mistakes
My paper doesn’t argue
My lines never cross me
My sentences never disappoint
And my words will never leave me
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