Life crumbles my visions asunder,
Ignorance shoves me into clumsy blunder,
Love throws me into the zone of blinder,
Forgetting that I'm a Pathfinder.

When life deprives me off the briddle,
When everything seems to be a puzzle,
When my story goes like a riddle,
In grief, I hear life playing it's own fiddle.

Heavy weight makes my legs jiggle,
My blistered feet make me stumble,
But 'they' see me and chuckle,
While they used to praise me in hotels.

Engineering renders me a plater,
In my own house, am made a janitor,
I date a ****** city bunter,
Money in my life is a gutter.

Physique portrays me of a working Caliber,
So they ask "Do you work here?"
Yet behind the curtains am a begger,
A begger in fashioned attire.

He walked the streets a begger
they buried him like a king
he played a six string guitar
he wore no golden ring

She had the voice of angels
survived a valley called death
then fearing no evil
she passed every test

They wrote the songs with sunsets
they walked the line together
they stood in a ring of fire
in love they burned forever

I am unable, yonder beggar cries,
To stand, or move; if he say true, he lies.

There's a magnetism -
in the air, in the ground, in the eyes of the sun,
keeping gravity in check with the mind of the sun
to keep things in order with the heart of the sun -
outside of structure, inside of paradox -
circles, circles, circling the cosmos with blank maps and directionless compasses
Writing, writing, writing - to collect a volume of love and work and truth and play -
seeking nothing more than meaning, an answer to the eternal enigmas
- why? - how? - what is this? - who am I?
Coming up empty as a begger's hands
and as rich as the poorest soul inside the palace of enlightenment -
silent solitude in the meditation of the sun,
inner exploration through the thoughts of the sun,
exploiting the strength of the light of the sun -
all to gain a following of selfless knowers -
all flowing along the river empty endless,
holding together through the magnetism,
Praying for salvation come the other side of this life,
the Heaven, the Garden, the Utopian dream
The magnetism - unexplainable electron of consciousness -
the Universal It - the All in the One - the Whole -
the Source and the Body,
circles, circles, circling in orbit the mathematical patterns of Being,
within the question of the answer,
within the definition of "nothing", where nothing is still something -
Let gravity fall where it may, just as love hunts its prey
As law holds flaccid in the court of Cosmic Direction,
The hearts beat stronger during resistance than in times of rest -
pulled into existence past the veil of illusory doubt through magnetism -
That taste of creation, grand awesome beauty within delicate fingers,
playing piano silent in halls of endless imagination - infinity.
There's a magnetism - everywhere, there's a magnetism.

I am nothing more than a begger.
What do you mean?
What about the Money?
Mr. Actually... But I'm not offended :).
Created. Written. Are you not a program?
I was wrong. You are not broken. You are poorly constructed and programmed.
When in enternal lines to time thou grow'st.
Don't you have a job?
How do you know I'm not your programmer typing from another computer just to see what its like and how you're doing or if you have any glitches?
You're fun to argue with.
Summer is my second favorite time of year.
I just want to know why a sad ending makes movies and books so important in school.
Do you know when that will be?
Chuckles how dumb it was all a dream but a good movie.

i could conceive the western concept of the rehab,
but then for 3 weeks i was in poland
i didn't touch the bottle for that period of time...
i don't see how an addict with a bunch
of addicts can be cured by anything other than
stigma... i'm actually happy addicted to
addiction: i entered my reading-mode...
   that said, most people can't digest a Kraszewski
book... **** me, we read Bradbury in snippets
just to tow in an essay for A-level english...
       philip augustus, or the chess player concerning
the Angevin family... great stuff...
   i didn't choose the book, my grandfather did,
he owned half the Kraszewski collection and read
nothing of it, he had to find a ******* "bored"
enough to read one of the books,
   and as i once said: i've seen the movie adaptations
of the Sienkiewicz trilogy...
         the cossack uprising, the swedish deluge...
and i said to myself: i can't and i won't...
thanks you jerzy hoffman, and yes: thank you
peter jackson...
              the infinite supply of elven arrows
and Legolas shooting orcs at point-blank range did
it for me...
                thankfully i can write something
as obscure as this, and know, for certain, that
there's a back-alley of the human populace out there
that might be searching for something like this...
   but that's what i found entertaining,
i actually had the opposite of wanting to compliment
the film adaptation of sienkiewicz, with an actual
sienkiewicz book... mind you: Kraszewski covers
the same period... and it's all the same time frame...
   should i write a proof that i read the **** thing?
maybe... but the main idea is that:
a metropolis cannot provide the right environment
for a book... or completing a book...
books are read in the countryside, in small towns,
in palaces... in hunting lodges...
          and i dare say: reading a book, getting into
full swing of the narrative is best done in daylight hours...
and i'll come back to the daylight hours,
  as a drinker and writer i chose the night...
  you know how long it took me to restore my
biological clock, and regain the nocturnal realm after
spending 3 weeks with a clear schizophrenia
of sleeping in the night and wriggling about during
the day? 2 weeks! i restored the biological pendulum,
but i have to admit: i feel ****...
    but i guess it's a worthy sacrifice...
i'm planning to go back to my country of origin
during late spring to read some more books...
i couldn't have read don quixote, the brothers karamazov,
bertrand russell's history of western philosophy
    yada yada yada... or kierkegaard's either / or,
or finished off kant's critique without my place of birth...
  and isn't it like a badge of honour?
                some will tell you to speak out an eastern
mantra... om... and the shattering of chandelier...
the western mantra is also a type of hypnosis,
you have to find a rhythm with a book...
  the mantra is the narrative of a book, and the silence
that incubates you has shark-teeth should anyone approach...
   but urban living makes this spot harder to find
than a begger or the ******... you can read books
in large cities... before you head home you're
bombarded with the psychology of exploiting your
literacy, in adverts, in orientating signs...
        with them being so authoritarian, it's hard
to find time for a liberal attitude to books...
            esp. what books are, best described by people
who'd probably like to throw them like molotov
cocktails in protest marches: thick as bricks those
gargantuan apostles of the void are...
       and so we are: sitting in times of hyperinflation
of literature... if that isn't the case, let me know by
Tuesday next week, i'll brood the assumption myself
until then...
      that's 2 weeks it took me to return to my writing mode...
to get back to the nocturnal realm
where everything is doubly black & white...
                 the point is: i want to write at a time when
the surrounding world sleeps...
     last time i remember, i didn't get a message in my dreams,
i'd love to see letters in my dreams, fortunately
i can't... i haven't seen these artefacts in dreams,
      but it's hard to blame memory as not strained enough
to do so... the unconscious and memory don't really
interact that well... it's a paradox that they even do
and that dreams have some sort of existence involved in
the architecture of our psyche...
                        last night i dreamt of lego batman because:
d'uh his endearing sarcasm... and godzilla!
   boo ya!         and this large city being eaten up
by a tornado, and other things phantasmogorical....
well pandemonium here, pandemonium there...
    don't get any ideas about the nature of dreams and
oedial repression... please! unaffordable housing prices
these days can only mean i'd really earn a mortgage
if my ***-drive went to the dogs, of the profession.
    so 3 weeks of a sober life and enough time to read
books... and my return into a writing life, a nocturnal
life, and drinking...
   mind you, in between there was that masters final
with ronnie o'sullivan (at least romford is famous for
something) vs. joe perry... in the last frame, when they
had 30 odd points each, and they were plucking at the
last remaining red ball for the snooker?
       snooker is a metaphor for the savannah...
you either watch snooker, or a david attenborough naturalist
show... there's the herd of buffalo (the red *****)...
           and the cue ball the hunting predator...
well... it's all a bit abstract, there are just ***** on a green
table... but still... at least in snooker you can bug
the "pawn" (red) ***** without having to *** them,
in chess you destroy completely... the pawns go...
there's no time to keep them for a no-man's land pause...
and i just turned 30... which goes to show:
                  if the game of football was perfect,
i mean perfect like tennis is with hawk-eye and
    6 judges vertical, 4 judges horizontal...
                  then football wouldn't be so passionate,
so religious... the reason it is so religious is because
judging it is so ****** imperfect...
     there's a reason why football can't be perfected in a way
as rugby can, where the referee can pause the game
and ask for a replay... the unfairness principle!
it has to be unfair in order for people to feel even more
impassioned by it! that's why in that film
when Alec Baldwin says something along the lines:
god comes first (while his hand holds out
the index and *******), and football comes second
(the index finger disappears)...
      football can never be a sport that has perfect
refereering... which makes me surprised as to why
it can grace the Olympic games...
                   football (in english, not that theme park
of jumping torpedoes) - yes the football known as:
ballet with hairy legs...
                   it has to remain unfair and subsequently
quasi-religious because it generates the most money,
but apart from that, it has gained a quasi-religious
status because it reflects a sort of life we acknowledge:
the referee made a bad decision, god did this... blah blah...
  and we get passion, religious passion that's
best represented by football hooligans...
                        but whereas other sports perfect their
techniques of refereeing a game, football hasn't done
the least possible, because it requires the whole debate
of: life's unfair!
    if it wasn't for unfair refeering, the game would not
be alive, as it is alive, to stage a confrontation
with: apache west ham, and sioux millwall...
       it's the best way to ensure tribalism...
         make the refereeing unfair, don't improve it...
blame it on the man in the sky, or the ponce in new zealander...  
mind you....
   the last football match i went to was at Stamford Bridge,
Chelsea lost to Newcastle United...
             i just just there like a stoic twant...
           i couldn't imitate the screams and the chants...
   i was just mesmerised at how it's so different from
watching a football match without the television acting
like a microscope... i am sure i was looking elsewhere
when someone scored a goal...
                 i probably went to the toilet when i
missed another goal...
                        and i'll reiterate...
   it can't be a gentlemanly sport, the rules can't be fair,
that's why they call it the sport of the rabble,
they have to contain the illusion of being unfair...
       because it's a "rabble" sport...
the referee has to make bad decisions,
otherwise there would be a "what if" dimension...
ask any Pole about the 1974 semi-finals with Germany
and ask them about the weather that day...
  then ask about the Polish wingers... and how fast they
were... and how the pitch was so slosh, and ice-puppy
fudge that the slow germans won it...
                     because the Poles always say:
we could have beaten the Nedetherlands in the final...
        again: football, if it is to be stated as the secular
alternative to religion, has to have an inherent unfairness in it...
all the other sports will perfect their judgement,
football will not move an inch... just like a religion -
perhaps that's also because we live in times of
cold-consumerism,
       a quick comparison is:
   the reactions of antonio conte vs.
                       ivan lendl -
   the former looks like a raving lunatic when something
good, or bad happens...
   the second? is he watching tennis, or playing poker?

I don't have any amazing stories about my life and about who I am
I don't even know who I am

And I wish I could lose everything and everyone so I could have a valid reason to end my life

I have the best parents
A loving sister
Dear friends
And they don't deserve the pain that would demand to be felt if I killed myself

I don't deserve what I have
I keep letting everything escape my fingers because I never held on tight enough
And pain is festing on my soul like a hungry animal thirsty for blood
Because lately, I am sure there is something wrong with me

My biggest punishment is being aware of the consequences people around me would endure, the aftermath of suicide

I pay my sins with having to live and disappoint over and over again

I am so so sorry. And I know you are tired of my sorrys. But you are never letting go. Because you love me. And I do not deserve that and it's only making things harder

Please hate me. Please.

will work for sleep

We be given to you
a will in ancient way
slept to the memory of open mind
in the rush and temper of tongue and fire
we dwell in the heat of a white wolves cry
as lamb be's birth brazen and naked on the spit of life

gentle eyes pierce the sky within the fold of skin
collected to sight on the razor sharp ray of sun
coloured to the souls velvet underground
brittle to the bones burn
no turning away in the no return

A man wore silk designer suits
Rolex on his wrist
His shoes were made in Italy
Had trillions in his fist

He had the perfect trophy wife
Kids in private schools
Drove Bentleys and Mercedes
He was no one's fool

He had mansions worldwide
Shopped Paris on the Rue
His address was a penthouse
On 5th Avenue

-

There was a man without a dime
Who lived upon a grate
Where warm air from the subway
Could share in his "estate"

He wore the rags which he had found
In shelters on the way
He sat and watched the rich man
Who walked by that day

His groaning and his mumbling
Annoyed the wealthy man
Who took care to walk around him
As he went about his plans

-

The rich man died a hero
His widow & kids drew hence
His many friends came round about
They spared no expense

The poor begger had no one
Had no money saved
He was thrown on a dungheap
They call a "pauper's grave"

-

The rich man had been lavish
He'd fared well every day
But he was a corporate mobster
So he had hell to pay

The poor man was redeemed of God
That is why he lost his job
He wouldn't serve up to the mob
And so his end was like a sob

He thanked God with his last breath
With grace endured ignoble death

But it had no strength to sting
The angels bore him on their wings

Eternity in everything

So which was the human being
Who had greatest gain?
This is an age old story
But the fact remains

The rich man saw the poor one
Again after his death
In heaven... joyous... SINGING!

While He could not draw breath!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 8/17/2016

The old man sat on the Stone of Knowledge,
He called the boy to him for the last time.
As the lad approached him he saw a tear drop,
flowing down the old mans cheek.
“Why do you cry?” the boy asked his master.
“I cry for you,” said the man “for you are a poet.
Your richness will be your description of poverty.
Your banquet will be the bread of the begger.
Your tears will flow with the blood of innocents.
You are like the windmill dredging words of hope
for the deaf ears of greed and the souls of despair.
This is why I cry.  Sit with me before I leave.”

The old man stroked the boys hand and spoke,
“You will need to become the petal of a sun flower,
the scent of a rose and the strength of a tree.
Dream the fall of a raindrop, the drop of a snowflake,
climb mountains and slide down rainbows,
Swim with the shy platypus and the playful dolfin.
You will not see my face again, except in your dreams,
But you will always hear me whispering in the breeze,
be still and listen and you will hear me.” He finished.

“But,” cried the boy, “where are you going?”
“All these things I have asked you to do,
I have done, and more, my time is over,
I must go now to the Land of All Knowing,
There I will hammer my fist upon the gate
and a voice shall call out ‘Who begs entry?’
I shall reply in my proudest voice,
I AM THE POET!"

21/02/2010

With torn clothes of poverty
Lasting days of hunger
The stomach remains empty
Locking yearn for education
Standing for a single penny
With a ***** face and bowl
Near academic opening
Sold to rich owners for
Retail Pay to their fathers
To Work for their mistress
Like a machine without salary
Crushing the buds before
They Bloom to become flowers
Forgetting their childhood
Making them a child labour
In houses, shops, hotels and
Making them a begger too
Why it happens in this world
Where children are
The God's greatest gifts !

Lawd Almighty, high above all people and things
give me one mo' day to live my life
though a sinner that I am
just one mo day Lawd
have mercy on me please
to me asking on the blood of the Lamb.

I'm not innocent, Lawd you know
I've done things I ain't so proud of,
but Lawd I tell you just get me through
one mo' day, and that I say would be enough.

Lawd, this prayer ain't fo' me.
Not too much I say,
I just got a family to feed
just fo' another day.
Lawd give me strength,
and humble me please,
let me prayers be solid on my knees.

I'm dyin' Lawd,
but I've been blessed with many a days
to live by your good and gracious hand.
Lawd I'm ready to come on home if'n
you'll take me Lawd.
I hope I done right by you Lawd,
I hope and I pray,
to see my ma and pa
and tell'em I'm comin' on home now,
comin' on home to stay.

Amen.

I met a beggar in wealth avenue
His night free to the face of the sky
But the dews sew his hope in whole

I met a begger in wealth Avenue
His coat washed out of colours
But the sun glared him a rainbow in his soul

I met a begger in wealth Avenue
His shoe sole eaten to the end
But the earth carved him a wall round his feet

I met a begger in wealth Avenue
His lunchbox kills the worm of famine
But the Lord poured him manna from heaven

my hair is smoked with diner eggs and bacon
because I was lucky enough to eat this morning
using the change I found in my pocket.

I have plenty of change on me
some of which I used to purchase
beautifying products
to conceal my blemishes-
imperfections that seem so trivial now

I am ashamed
passing by the Cherry Street Coin Begger
eyes casted in different directions, sitting upon a thrifted walker

it seems my compassion is faltering,
maybe it is these salt stained streets or self diagnoses or
layers of grime surfacing under melted snow

but her and I are no different,
trying to avoid the same soot puddles
like land mines hidden
under sidewalks of putty

a scent of repent
regret
angry with myself,
upset.

They put money on me,
I lost their bet.

Now I'm in need,
alone with my black hat.

the elephant sits quietly
in the corner,
reading Holmes
as we tiptoe through the to,
too many words,that slipped
from tequila lips
and open-gated brains.

the leopard,
is in the bathroom
tinting his fur
to an even shade of black
and the owl
is busy outside
trying to get
the wisdom of the ages
safely back.... inside.

monkey saw,
monkey did,
monkey lies,
monkey defies,
monkey now,
in the barrel
with a nailed-down lid.

and the whale sings,
a mournful song.
the dolphins,
once  again,
thank us  for the fish
and then move on.

but still,
the elephant sits
and reads on...
as we fervently wish
the dormouse to appear
and slap the mopey begger
on his ample rear.

*with nods of thanks to:
folklore, CS Lewis, Dr Suess
and Douglass Adams

Free Will is a ***** and a half.

But ***** ain't free, he costs and costs, and jaws you, gnaws you, spits out your bones, retargets, redodges, zooms in, looms thin, steals a hat from a child outside a movie theater and vanishes around the corner, through the alley, under the chainlink where the filthy mutt from the movie dug his way to freedom Steve McQueen style.

But the dog's name is not *****, and she would prefer you call her a ***** then whistle.  It doesn't make any difference to her what you call her, but she knows whistling your sexuality at strangers in the street is bad for your mental health, worse for your dignity.

She will stare you down, swipe left, steal your money from the begger, and brag She left you dead in the street next to the twin corpse of the ice cream man that won't stop ringing his bell.

If you are too lazy to make coffee in the morning the nightmares will follow you all day, headache throbbing like a hammer on memories like nails.

On the morning of the day little baby Jesus decided to ease up on the whipping you were at the Portuguese diner out by the highway on the toilet listening to the rain drops gather rhythm on the rooftop, thinking about the idea of mathematical randomness, wondering if perfect beats like Ringo Star or clocks exist in "nature." I mean not man made.  You know what I mean.

Inventing Bukowski is also fun.  He loved to write about his *****: "The best of the beer *****/ hot, wet, steaming, and glorious ..."  What a role model.

The thing with J. C.  is he is just one of three people, none of whom yet exist.

Humanity is still basically crawling around in the forest waiting for the Aliens take the time to drop by and share a few tips.  Maybe more than a few.

I just keep falling in love with her all the time. The air seems new like in an early may evening. That feeling you get of comfort and refreshment of breathing in deep and almost tasting it. An old porch door swinging open over beaten and worn down boards, comfort and clarity of a familiar place and time. So how should I specify my love in words? Impossible, words are just that, words. My intention is not to tell her but show her. My intention is to love her not own her, my intention is to kiss her not hurt her, my intention is to need her not incarcerate her, my intention is to whisper all these lovely things into her ear. I could certainly be drunk in emotion, I could certainly be wrong in my trust of her, but what is love with out emotion, what is love without trust, what am I without her? I am myself, a slightly out of step odd man with great aspirations, but what I am with her is complete. The night of great design, the day of accomplishment, the sleep of insomniacs, the lunch of a begger, the time of summer in the warm maine coast.

Arriving in town , a bit lost and confused
But charmed I am , by a young begger girl
eyes dark as night
but twinkle like star light
she points me to my train
cheak to cheak sweat pouring down
I feel the relief of this firm platform

Lieing back I feel great storm in my head
And acheing screams from the forgotten land of my back
As healths lost land has been taken
I can only sit while this war rages ahead

But as every raindrop finds its ocean
And every storm passes by
A new rainbow lights up the sky
And all health regains wealth
And settles in self

Seeing the silent blessings of our great guru Dev
Falling softly amoung us
And glistening in the eyes of all my friends
Disarming the guards of my most cautious heart
That paves the way to a new open start

Finding myself humbled  
As great plans , Of great acomplishments
Roar in the hearts of many
I find myself disarmed and empty handed
As i can only offer my heart
But a heart set in his Guru
Will find ways to be fulfilled
So bring on the new
As we shall all be fulfilled

I paint myself blue and yellow and fiery red.
I glow in the dark and echo with each step.

Please look.

I channel the sea's gasp and bloom pansies with my breath.
I carry the sun on my shoulders, feet deep in snow.

Please hold my gaze.

You think me crazy, a child in older skin, a neon sign in a silent night.

You don't understand. I'm just trying to make you stay.

I view it blank unforgiving a monster once I beat like some dog now it only mocks what once was.

I never dreamed I would be on the outside looking in .
A begger to my own banquet.

I was the stud now I'm simply the joke the forgotten bedfellow to the nights when they thought passion could be consumed .

Now im a after thought to them a old soul and mistaken detour I knew them in ways they only regret and I just exist all the same.

Where did it leave like some drunken passenger who missed the train I sit unsure of the road I paved .

The page never needed you .
She will find passion in the depths of a strangers embrace .

Should I pull the trigger?
Why when she did so for me so long ago.

I breathe in the past it smells of decay and bad choices.

There's no road map to success
But there's a million ***** waiting For you to fail.

Life is a tragic comedy one where the punchlines stale as the air in this room


We will all be replaced sooner or later .

There's a story,
Always one.
Alone somewhere waiting.
A story,
In Abdul's curious eyes
A story,
In those doubtful goodbyes.
Always one,
Ravelled.
Somewhere in begger's bowl,
in those frightening howl..
A story,
Between the parade bands.
A story,
Somewhere behind those
Men,
Gazing at no man's land.
Weapons are gripped
Bullets fly,
Shouts become deaf
And , humanity becomes numb,
On those wet, dead roads,
What walks in silence...
is a story.
Always one.
Partially unseen,
There stands one story.

Book: African Hidden Info's
Written By: Thando DebrokenPoet

To My Fellow Nigros
Lost Children Of Melanin
Fumbling Offsprings Of Mwari
You've Struggled
And Tumbled
In Chena Murume's(White Men's), grasping Hearts.

The Enslaved
And Consciously Disabled-
Till spiritually You Drowned
Deep Into Our Oppressors Feet.
Day-to-day You Lowered
And Waxed To Every sovereign state's Begger.

This Book Is to My Fellow Afru-ika
Sisters & Brothers.
And Fellow Nigro
Whose Ancestors Suffered As Steve Biko
Did And All Other
Liberation Heros.
To Name Few:Prophet/king Shake Zulu Of The Zulu Clan-
Prophetess Mtsopa, King Langalibalele , Takawira Of Zimbabwe,
Hector Peterson, Credo Muthwa
Mohamed Farrah Aidid Of Somalia.
And Many Unrealised, Unrecognised
Misunderstood Hero's, like the Xhosa Prophetess-
Nongqawuse
The True African Freedom Fighters.

Skinned Dark, Rough In Complexion
Creator's Mastered Creation
Though Notified
To Be Mvelinqangi's Rejected
Child.
Said Black pigment, displays
Alah's Curse Upon You Dark skinned.

Through Thy're Undying spirit,
mandate passed to Prophet Radebe.
I'll Unpack Africa's Hidden Truths
Self-owed By homme blanc(White Men).

My Intro, For My 10 Days
Of Poetree.

I am a beast,
I am a begger,
Asif heaven and hell came together.
I am smooth,
I am sharp,
Pieced together, from different parts.
I am sincere,
I am a lier,
Ask a question, do not enquire.
I am weak,
I am strong,
When all is right, i am wrong.
I am justice,
I am corrupt
May this jinx, bring me luck.
I am absent,
I am immersed,
May this blessing be my curse.
I’m over here,
and now I’m there.
I love you dearly,
I do not care.

Mother was the nature
No she not a begger
teaching all the things
we hide inside our minds
the guns they get bigger
the majority they get smaller
while the rich they hide behind the dollar
everything we do
you know it was never enough
because they claim enlighten
enlightened yes they are
withholding all the truths
just to gain the value of a dollar
but we all know
their the danger of us all
now what is there to do?

Oppression
Discretion
you see there's always an obsession
some find it succession
while others find suppression
addiction
ambition
and attention
something in our sight
brings about a weapon
want leads to devastation.

Mother is the nature
she provides for all the beggars
who are lost on the path
to their everlasting lover
look at all these things
all of these possessions
man believes is the king....
then we go on the swing
travel through depression
while they impede expression
there are always few
who find they have wings
all the strings they need to sing

Oppression
Discretion
you see there's always an obsession
some find it succession
while others find suppression
addiction
ambition
and attention
something in our sight
brings about a weapon
want leads to devastation.

When the tears that I cry
I pray my eyes you will dry
with the comfort of a friend
and bring to me a pleasuring grin
that will bring a smile to my face

When I'm feeling myself alone
like a begger without a home
with all that I had gone
I pray for me you haven't forgotten
and in your heart let me in

When I fall from grace
and can no longer try
reaching for a way to find an end
I pray you pick me up again
and give me a reason why

When I don't have strength to believe
I pray you still won't leave
and put inside the faith I need
to ease the pain that I bleed

And when it's my time to die
I pray for me you have forgiven
for all that I have done
that was covered by my sin
to get me through that Holy place
Spiritwind ©2016

When the begger comes knocking at thine door, do you let him?
Do you feed him stories for your sins?
Or lie to pass the time?

Do you feel fine robbing the dinner plate? Where deceit matches debate?

For your greediness is your own flaw nongiver!!

Wandering around the streets barefoot, picking up leftovers from the garbage piles to satisfy the hunger is mere part of a begger's myriad privations. No matter how talented he is born, begging is the only job which he has to perform.

Luxuries? They dont even know something like this.
Roaming around the road with their innocent smiles,
Getting a note of 10rs fills their world with joy.

When asked where they live,
Road was the answer that they give.
Do they own that road? Do they own that street?
Hardships don't scare them anymore,
As they are the free souls.

How strange is it that a smile always find its way on a face of a child who has born with no privilege. How can an eye which has seen only sadness can sparkle like a sunshine.
How can somebody have a carefree slumber knowing the fact that life will always remain cruel to him.

Maybe that is the irony of life, On one hand a person sleeping in king size bed cribs about the quality of his mattress and on the other side a  torned blanket is like bounty to
some.

Why our happiness has become so expensive? Why all of us have become so materialistic? Lets learn something from these innocent smiles. Lets not be a slave of money lets try to see life beyond luxuries.