If I wrote a book,
you will be my central character.
Million copies later,
I may write through your impeccable knowledge.

If I wrote a poem,
you will be in every word.
A couple of views later,
I may speak through your poetic silence.

If I acted in a play,
you will be my audience.
A few applauses later,
I may act out a monologue of glorious affection.

Say hi,
Say hello,
Say no more,
When words stop,
I will understand,
That we are where we need to be.

If I met you in real life,
you will be my soul mate.
A few decades later,
I may seek a second life with you.

So, meet me now! :)

Forth into the forest straightway
All alone walked Hiawatha
Proudly, with his bow and arrows,
And the birds sang round him, o’er him,
“Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
Sang the blue bird, the Owaissa,
“Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”

Up the oak tree, close beside him,
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
In and out among the branches,
Coughed and chattered from the oak tree,
Laughed, and said between his laughing,
“Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”

And the rabbit from his pathway
Leaped aside, and at a distance
Sat ***** upon his haunches,
Half in fear and half in frolic,
Saying to the little hunter,
“Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”

But he heeded not, nor heard them,
For his thoughts were with the red deer;
On their tracks his eyes were fastened,
Leading downward to the river,
To the ford across the river,
And as one in slumber walked he,

Hidden in the alder bushes.
There he waited till the deer came,
Till he saw two antlers lifted,
Saw two eyes look from the thicket,
Saw two nostrils point to windward,
And a deer came down the pathway,
Flecked with leafy light and shadow.
And his heart within him fluttered,
Trembled like the leaves above him,
Like the birch-leaf palpitated,
As the deer came down the pathway.

Then, upon one knee uprising,
Hiawatha aimed an arrow;
Scarce a twig moved with his motion,
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled,
But the wary roebuck started,
Stamped with all his hoofs together,
Listened with one foot uplifted,
Leaped as if to meet the arrow;
Ah! the singing, fatal arrow,
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him!

Dead he lay there in the forest,
By the ford across the river;
Beat his timid heart no longer,
But the heart of Hiawatha
Throbbed and shouted and exulted,
As he bore the red deer homeward,
And Iagoo and Nokomis
Hailed his coming with applauses.

From the red deer’s hide Nokomis
Made a cloak for Hiawatha,
From the red deer’s flesh Nokomis
Made a banquet in his honor.
All the village came and feasted,
All the guests praised Hiawatha,
Called him Strong-heart, Soan-ge-taha!
Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!

She represented freedom
With her humble clothes
her burning red hair,
have i ever witnessed something so pure

She smiled with her eyes closed
as she danced just for herself
She was not dependent on the crowd's applauses
She only moved for the heart's desire and love of the folk music
She had captured gazes,
without a single look.
The witness of her radiance gave hope,
but she was oblivious to her affect on the people

As with every valiant step she took,
her subtle curls were tenderly
shown affection by
the cool breeze of the night
She had known the woods better than anyone in the town
As if she had not walked alone,
which only made her light radiate ever so bright.
She wore mud as her shoes
and used the howling voices
of dusk as her armor

It makes you question;
if the moon was created just for her eyes,
they seemed to get brighter
and shiny every la lluna plena.

Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.
    VIRGIL.

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection
  Embitters the present, compar’d with the past;
Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection,
  And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last;

Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
  Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;
How welcome to me your ne’er fading remembrance,
  Which rests in the *****, though hope is deny’d!

Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
  The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;
The school where, loud warn’d by the bell, we resorted,
  To pore o’er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder’d,
  As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander’d,
  To catch the last gleam of the sun’s setting ray.

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
  Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o’erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
  I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.

Or, as Lear, I pour’d forth the deep imprecation,
  By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv’d;
Till, fir’d by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
  I regarded myself as a Garrick reviv’d.

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
  Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne’er can forget you:
  Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
  While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o’ershadows the prospect before me,
  More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!

But if, through the course of the years which await me,
  Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
  “Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew.”

sinking in tides that like the blue nights you spent smoking out dream after nightmare until they turned to ashes of shattered glass bottles that once held your dusty peace together only distracted you from the haze left behind from your speed boat of orange memories and endless applauses of accomplishments, you are not a failure just because the ink in your pen ran out of rhymes, you are a full solar system with planets to call your own, the ropes at each moon are yours to call home and no amount of broken silhouettes will track anyone to your tents of stocked up dried out flowers, even when your heart is being licked with cold flames of metals you still cant fail to pronounce with the back of your scorching tongue

she told me it would be okay. that everything would work out.
that i could lay in summers green grass, gazing into the blue sky.
she told me it would stay sunny, she didnt say fog would arise and clouds would start to cover.
she told me it would help me thrive, give me wings and grow flowers.
but when the wings grew they were broken. the flowers made me choke. i couldn't fly, i couldn't breathe.
the sky was all grey and she told me to keep going, there would soon be blue.
she would mend my broken wings with starvation and watching other people eat all the food i could not have.
she told me the flowers choke me to control me.
she was right.
she rubbed my wings with all the oils i kept out of my diet and they did heal.
but every time i would place food onto my tongue, or something other than diet drinks to flush my system, she would break my wings again and the grey would come back.
she'd reach down my throat and cut the flowers with shears of fire. standing above me as i screech in pain. waving them at me, yelling, "look what you have forced me to do."
so i walk with dead flowers and broken wings until i serve her again.
then she shows me a chart of all the food i haven't eaten in that week and applauses me.
i am tired.
i am in ******* pain.
but i am happy.
she heals me once again.
my flowers again choke me as they bloom, and i can fly.
my wings, stained with blood and tainted with scars.
I don't need food.
she told me that food is my enemy and food will only cause a disturbance.
but i am being sent away now and they are making me eat and ai am really unwell and doesn't she think that its about time?
i put the food in my mouth and finish one hundred percent.
she violently grabs my wings and pulls me to the ground.
one by one she plucks the flowers, i feel for my wings, where are they?
she told me, "don't you understand how much we have sacrificed?"

Sitting there on the lap
He claps when the audiences clap
On him painted an aura of happiness
A smile is permanently fixed on his face.
Eyes forever stretched without a frown
He plays to the gallery a perfect clown
You may envy his easygoing ways
Gathering laughter on all that he says,
His widely open unblinking eyes
That show faked emotions feigned surprise.
You may like to have his rapturous nights
Drawing applauses hogging limelight
But you would have pity for him once you know
He’s a talking doll in the ventriloquist’s show.

too many youtube punctuation akins before my voice comes through, like: hi! i'm child-minding chalrie! ola! oo! advert gives a ****?! you see that? advert gives a toss! well... ola! original lost to marsh potatoes mash.

like i was led by a solomonic harem:

we're buggered;

   to be honest.... hugh grant could have
said that better, and, would have facied him...
if he made that one film from my youth
about a damsel in distress... and the return
of charles II to england... the thing adam and the ants
imitated: highwayman no robin hood...
clean shaven like a daffodil in early spring frost
for the eye to peer into...

as it turns out, you write one great piece of work
and everyone applauses...
you write a thousand symphonies,
and everyone turns flame-eyed and forgets
your one spectacular moment, which
you take into hades and wish to forget given
the total output, when they mention that it
was all great, but so comes cousin critic and you
know that most of it was... a bit ****...
               and because of that:
they tend to do better... they?
   the ones that hit the banknote of a one song
wonder... and then receded into life,
and debated with gay peerage in some restaurant
akin to bridet jones' diary scenario,
and oh my oh my: the palpitations necessary
like make-up... i can almost see flamingos take to ballet!

and then it's back to *quack quack quack
of promenades in the park watching mallards...
  
original jealosy fades.... no, nothing else,
it just fades... which can feel a bit weird,
basically it, just, fades - i take to foot what people
take to: speeding down the a408 thinking
about tax; well yeah, i tax my feet with a mile, or two,
sometimes i take to the mile or two
with a different pair of shoe.
                                   you a rhyming rhino too?
              
you write pachebel's canon,
you're going to compete with haydn's 103
symphony...
similar to a question: how many eggs am i
carrying in my basket?

dear reader, like i child i never fathered,
or like a dog i never petted,
          or should i simply aim at: dear ego?
what unit i had and never thought with,
never mind the thought of?

the fact that you can't cry, is the reason
that you are depressed,
that's another statement that's worthwhile,
stating apathy as a misery
without tears, the original melan- -choly...

listen, i don't care because i don't want to,
  i care about something that i want to care
about because thte things i would like to care about
i can't or don't want to,
   so i take the "metaphor" (which means
half my hans zimmer is gone) that keeps
haydn's symphony no. 103 almost floating
above pachelbel's canon...
      i'd love to miss out the second l...
and there, the ****** white, the doves,
     the church, and... hail! the marching bride!
that feeling of consecration...
    can you realise that newspapers are stink
compared to dust-affording books?
              yep... newspapers are ****
compared to book... i kept a week's worth
of newspapers in my room, i realised
that it stank as if a cat ****** in my room...
  when i listen to pachelbel i'm supposed to think
of kent, or devon, aren't i?
thumbs up essex oi oi!
                   halfway house out of 'ackney
  or 'eckham...
      oh right, right, like i was ever invited to a
marriage...
                     some 'un 'as to be the black sheep
of the family...
   well... i hope she divorces aged 40 and has a miscarriage
aged 35... if i really wanted to give a toss...
i'd toss, a cricket 'ard ball of
                mahogany cranium and make
believe that i was loved,
instead of receiving postcards from strangers...
living about a mile away...
    so there i see pachelbel with his canon in D....
and there i see mozart, laughing in steppenwolf
as is worth citing:
      i wrote so much ******* i just had to
tickle my ***** like a philosopher might ****** his
beard... if that answers your question:
they remember him for only one song,
and do so rightly,
   me? i'm not quiet sure why they remember
me for a hundred.
   it's like pachelbel is the *** pistols
        and i'm the ramones, or the offspring,
or stiff little fingers... or the dread, ****!
green day?!
                 according to noel gallagher
who did say that never mind the *******
was something we didn't accomplish with his
oasis albums... even though back in the day...
on the european continent, no one sang anything
apart from oasis songs... you went to paris:
oasis... you taizé... oasis...
yes, what was, once, france... or frau hans...
and then the exagerration on the f....
like an alo alo alo episode...
                 that's basically what it sounds like....
pachelbel's           pa-she-sha  l          fix it bell's
   pashelbel's               it's also half check in czech...
     but that's what noel said akin to mozart:
to be honest? i'd rather just (have) written than canon in D
and ****** off; if i wrote more than that
i'd be anything but that spare prosthetic limb
for that one legged man, dancing at a party in Versailles.

.i've seen cover songs
                 being overplayed:
t.a.t.u.,
              snake river conspiracy...
of the smiths': how soon is now?
mind you... do you feel that
chernobyll itch? do you?

i like this quote:
the loudest applauses
craft the most silent encores...
who was it? i guess it must haven been
me,
if it wasn't me, then...
we have a problem.....

well thank you,
the danes found out...
the warsaw pact attempted to keep
it hush hush....
                  i am:
the sleeping diatribe...

such a spectacular disobedience
to having fathomed
the obedience
to the last remaining iota
of a purpose....

              friend to boyo fiend,
and the jargon buste (adjunct)....
while toying with
being enemy to the squish
  and the tentacle lover
            of lost
& last concerns...
serves you a: counter sushi
masterpirece with a worth
of herrigs....
to mind a counter with...

                   you know how "god" abhors
"original" sin..
what becomes "sin"?
well... "unoriginality"...
      i too hate  & abhor the platitude
of plagiarism;
i'm a blatant Evangelist
at this point...
             i'd rather die...
before i'm reborn...
then again... i'd slso act
like Jack Nicholson....
but then again my demands
are worth are shutters squat...
to mind...
          what becomes a Led Zeppelin
"original" sin...
           tobacco shutters...
taping-course:
wet tobacco...
not chewed, rather, smoked...
whatever...
people will never believe the victim...
they will, when there's
a dead body... otherwise...
dead wise no war no death sold...
apparently the dead
are "wise" when there's no war....
then again...
when war...
the "wise" also claim:
there are no casualties....
who needs them?
no one can recognize them, anyway...
mother death justice earth:
who can blindly recognize either!
the twin justice,
that justifies encompassing both...
the joy that originates
from wet.... tobacco;
i don't care who's to blame...
all i care about is that...
someone is actually claimed,
as requested
for being made to claim blame.

now god, now no god,
now the infantile man
with a belief in a god,
now a memorable
  now a seriously acclaimed man
of concrete disbelief...
that... pristine atheist...
i too hold my claims
to be of barren wastelands
in order to have them
be made for the worth of them
being cherished.

Ah, the Entertainers!
My special Peoples -->
Helping to comfort
Me with some Home Truths.
How I love to relax
And let you amuse me,
Or teach me, or tell me, or show me
What awesome skills you've developed.
Like a rounded peg
Driven into my frosted heart,
I thaw out, refreshed;
A brand new me, happy
With my Lot; contented.
My Life may be intense,
But your Life enriches
Not just me - everyone.
My bestest applauses
Friends and Conspirators.

Here is the thing darling, no matter how many cheer,
The world remains an empty place.
There’s an abrupt sound of palms hitting one another,
But the moment is fleeting.
The lights shut off. The curtains close.
Applauses end.

4 strings and a bow
She turned all heads in a row
Her smile on the chin rest
And her hand did the rest

Spotlight on her face
Muted are the applauses
Drum and guitar noises
I can't count the glances

4 strings and a bow
How would I let her know
That with 4 strings and a bow
She turned dark skies to a show

a black quilt patched up with diamonds for stars looming above us,
our feet effortlessly following through the steps
even when we’re both bad at dancing
you spin me around
and pull me in for a dip
all the while having your eyes trained on mine
with the kind of emotion i can't quite decipher
but i didn’t mind-
in the back of my mind this could pass off as the one where i'm in a white dress and gold could be found on both of our ring fingers- the orchestra plays the song once more
and when we finally finish off,
there was even a smattering of applauses from the crowd
the scene ending with us taking a bow
-little did we know that we were dancing to our swan song

Walking around  I feel like there’s a spotlight on me.
I’m in a play I didn’t addition for
right on stage floor.
But there’s no applauses
Just silence
The quite almost violent
To the point of knocking me down with humiliation
With relation
That im not good enough
With  thought what if and it might
With the victory and satisfaction just out of sight.
runs my life
Its stage manger
The director
In charge of background and more.
Anxiety the play of my life

I cant stop going back to all the things that i know wont work
I forsake the lessons ive learned in the hopes that things will be different this time
But it's always the same
Drunk or high
It won't help me remember how to fly
Ive forgotten how to use my wings
And how to use my voice to sing
The melodies that used to pick me up and dance in my head have found their way to playing on the brighter stages with new friends
Its all been lost to the passage of time and if this is all that ive got left i see no reason not to die
Empty chrouses and a cacophony of silent applauses
Vacant seats and dead vibrations in the air
There will be no break for intermission
This show goes on hold for no one
With a decaying babckbeat for none to hear
And a drowning melody that will flood your ears
You will soon learn that theres no method to the madness
Its just a pouring out of all the things that make up sadness

Up and down the street
they shouted and yelled!
An applauses over the
sky and atmospheric
nature blink and gaze
...can be seen, every corner
is a mixture of shine and dark,
in the far eastern is a balloons and
lanterns escaping to the above
earth, in the mid-eastersn a towers
blink and exploded
Above the black quarters, tension
and conflict are competing, and in
the ebony estate the insurgencies
took a ride on their roads...
In every home, there is a bed and the blanket of conflict but in the western
Shelters there's comfort mats to dwell

without the trenches...
there's still that commeradary...
what nuance
of the bombs of ****...

i lost the ability to feel
an intimacy when...
  a cat had to find a cushioning
sensation of fudge-packing
a corner: while at sat on a sofa...
all that furr-borrow against
a clarity of a crease
that's towing a knee and all
this naked flesh-out...

by the *****-load of
traffic... wriggling away at the
base posit...
i'm here for the
"chomąto": a collar for a horse:
i'm your paddy sort of
well respected plumber /
hobbit folk...
i'm here for "nothing":
but i'm most certainly here
for a toothache...

there is no war...
there are no trenches...
there is no mud of Flanders...
but i'm here... scribbling
toward a ferocity that:
begs giving countering
explanations...
the arabs are no longer
mere camel jockeys...
their kept monotheism
and their polygamy...
they are rich oil sheikhs...
and i'm wondering as to how or why...
i'm already a trusted extension
of *****... whenever i trusted
the bone marrow to speak...
when i was a **** toy...

                now to degrade myself
with a single mumsie...
                h. h. holmes forever solves
the plot...
   "something" is expected
to thicken... i cook a **** good
curry sauce...
the vikings were savages yet
they managed to grease up
a tier above animal...
the stature of poets...
because? the priests
were not supposed to read...

i'd sooner want to see the horrors
of the trenches...
than this... peace-abiding... faking it...
that i haven't allowed myself
to be loved...
how strange it is...
to then "stress"...
animals can stand me...
i don't expect loving to be
in their repertoire of cue...
and children find me...
bewildering enough...
to allow an exchange of eyes...
which is more than
a conversation...

i've been told to trim my Engel beard...
i gather: it is... rather bushy teasing
afro concentration
of: where oh where: my chin and
slobber?
                    
it's really sad it really is...
                  i'm here faking
homosexual erotica "literature": the best counter
to casting a ******* vote...
while i need to hear some
balloon popping in a metaphor of:
when a tree falls...
in a forest... and there's no one to
hear it fall...

                    truant! truant!
                        the tree doesn't "fall"...
there's only...
a need for rain and the forest to
be "riddled" by oaks rather than pines...
so that the rain can fall on leaves
that have to later earn
their status of cymbals...

      but this is not world war I...
i see no trenches...
yet... for ****-toy that i was...
it's nice to be appreciated as merely as such...
who dare, climb the frictions
of: father status...
and i could have been that
base alcoholic foundation stone
for a son that managed to...
transcend his origins...
i would have: i could have been
the motivational tool!
a drunk with a private library that would
have contestants shy...
in disbelief...

look at me now...
a walking cul de sac prison of life...
not "yet" aborted...
but clearly not donning a niqab...
either...

to hell with it!
let is appeal to the river of heraclitus
and god's (any god you please)
will as you orate arguments
most thoroughly...

i started to itch when i listened
to both sides of the "argument"...
i listened to the woman...
i listened to the man...
                  i'd much prefer an ownership
of a dog when i would not
have to invest in a leash...
or a muzzle...
i'd like selfish-act of presence
that abide by the foundation:
alias glue...
      i don't want selfless acts
of pretty-please...
i want the most base...
selfish acts of overtly-simplified...
life...

    i supposed myself to be...
tangled up with wilhelm's khakis...
no... wait.. adolph prone-types...
the germans / the russians
are no longer the celebrated enemy
for a cultural phallus hard-on?
i am... supposedly... facing an enemy...
that... props and gangash river plough...

this is all i have...
a sickness of christianity...
the ***** has yet to reach
the crucible... the beast is already towing
a thoroughly graced feast
of furrow...
in 7 ******* languages...
i arrived towing
the newly baptised nations of africa...
how they became so willingly converted...
i guess to counter:
the east african slave trade...
to erase all demands
for muhammad: middle-class...
come the story out of Kenya:
notably Mombasa...

     my limits of hand...
shaking agreement with shadow
then cusping a *******
reconstruction of "boney-m" *****...
i am... a walking... ghost of an abortion...
i need to satisfy myself with:
the fact that... i am not...
a protagonist choice to thereby:
climb...

i exhausted myself on proving
that geocentrism was not...
and that heliocentric is...
but sun up or down down...
gynocentrism is still the *******...
paramount of narratives!

        as well walk around
*****-tied to the narrative
of god the father...
god the necrophylia-esque sworn...
it's enough to want a rottweiler
that could be petted as a cat...
no leash... no muzzle...

it's not that investing in emotions
with anyone beside my mother...
i was a bilingual strategist
before a schizoid dumb-down...
like i had to be made
RE-tarded before gaining
the chance for the e populus
choicest of applauses!

i did imagine traffic in the trenches...
fighting a goliath of an SS-man
in the woods...
not this... not this cheap-***** of a:
as man...
when there aren't any problems:
we will... invet problems!
and if they're not problems!
they'll be known as... bureaucratic solutions!
because our hunger / fetish
for bad *** never allowed us to
disavow...
mediocre work of... perfecting an
acting principle of... loitering!

*** does two "things"... it sells...
but it also... clogs...
and by clogging in creates: cogs...
so the machinery of *******
expands!
*** selling is the easiest bit...
that it clogs up thereby creating cogs
is... a "subconscious" desire
of this... multifarious... diadem...

**** similis marries...
         cerebrum fungus...

       there! that's your ******* **** sapiens
story!
there! ping pong latin-esque quadratic!
**** similis qua fungus cerebrum...
similar to man... quasi ape...
as being... a fungus theft... of a brain...
on the "reverse"...
"god" only talks to the brain-damaged
or the brain dead...
or we evolved...
by being invested in / infested by...
a ******* talking... mushroom!
sputnik neon-lights!
arbitrary-counter-bites!
        it's a duality of arguments...
that a brain-damaged exhibit (a)
"conversing" with god
is less credible than
a brain-placebo-sucker exhibit (b)
"conversing" with:
emptiness suckle... or:
the sensible approach of...
the veil! the mushroom enzyme!
right now! no one is more sensible...
i count the affairs of the brain-damanged
in conversations with god
assured new progress as those...
"freely available"...
toying a pawn of chess...
with amazonian ******-pharmacology...
n'est ce-pas?!

i do not classify myself
as a famous teenager
when the only attention
i am trying to seek
is the one from you
as the world applauses
my every move

Comfort in Peace
The Essence of Joy
Stars Inspired
Animation of Hope
Dreams showing possibilities
A Birth assuring Holy
Journey in and Journey out
In the distance, there is uplifting singing moving about
A Night being so Eventful
The showcase so beautiful
The Radiation of Love
Heart to Heart established
Rejoice
Holy Night having a verse
The Moon applauses
The Stars Twinkle
The Presence of a Born King
Its fellowship being the thing
Recognize
Energize
I say, REJOICE REJOICE REJOICE
Magnificence
Wonder throughout the air
A Breeze beyond compare
Everlasting like no other
Tomorrow being a promise
Golden in honest
Oh Come
The Kingdom
A Babe being Faithful
Our introduction to Majestic and Glory
Holy Night being the story

How, oh how
do I reason
with unreason
which has deaf ears
and a mind of rock?

What gave it birth
that overpowering strength
which paralyses
as an earthquake's shock?

Trapped as reason fails
I could make no move
no argument could I advance
even if I have all the proof.

Weary, worn-out and exhausted
no words of persuasion
could I find--I'm left stranded
in the lacuna of life's wilderness
while unreason applauses
in triumph and mocks me the helpless
the lonely and pitiable beleaguered.

Thank you Congressmen John Lewis for your commitment
It was your Divine Determination
But it all started at God’s creation
The world applauses being heritage of appreciation
Your Civil Rights efforts are complete
But it is your legacy for us that is neat
Your inspiring words to us, “Lean On Me”
When we are not strong
No separation is we don’t belong
But assemble and fight being determined to fit in and get along
Lean on me and continue
Yet be peaceful and yet be furious
Your Civil Rights history was the start of the fight
Freedom Riders just added more in shedding light
Washington mourns
But was given a new rebirth
You turned hope and showing the way to cope
You were the man of reason and saw vision being no joke
You woke up the world with thundering words, “REBEL, STAND AND BE READY”
Stay the course, but hold steady
Thank you over and over being part of the Civil Rights Movement
You crossed the bridge
This became our privilege
Because of your Civil Rights influence
Your strength became our endurance
Your Freedom Rider chariot a waits
Destination Pearly Gates Heaven
Dignity, Honor and Remembrance
The chanting sounds of praise and rejoice
Rest now
Yet rejoice
It will always be your echoing voice
This is not Goodbye, but until we join Heaven together

Around seemingly into a maze
Perhaps thirst for wonder, but the start of a happening amaze
Yet uncertain praise
Behind the open of the unknown being the center, the point of the spotlight
The mind circling and circling trying to find one’s destination
Yet it is nothing more than movement with a puzzled stare
Eye of the needle
Science into equations
Physics with algebraic notions
Welcome to the Poet’s Twilight Zone
Through the pages of life is accelerated with time
It came with me to explore
Walk through the Twilight Zone door
The story is about Mary Joe
She writes Poetry, but circumstances prevents her from completing sentences
So Mary Joe suddenly pauses
She hears sounds of applauses
It is a battle being between writing and emotions
Mary Joe fears are like roaring ocean s with drowning, and never reaching the surface
But Mary Joe is losing it as she is hearing echoes, “No longer in Control
No Longer in Control
The echoes grew ever longer
Pondering becoming wondering
Mary Joe’s mind finally caves in, and being a Poet no more
Any Poet’s own consequence can be disturbing full of doubt
But because of Mary Joe’s lack of assurance caused her in being a Poet totally forgotten
That is the Poet Twilight Zone