Troublesome love . . .

will not let you sleep . . .

Sort of like a basketball game . . .

Questions are bounced mad and furiously
against the hard wood floor with only
more questions bouncing back .

Meanwhile someone is trying to steal
your dreams causing you to twist and turn distorting your image .

And you fight your way down
the court of life and toss your hopes and
dreams into the air and pray to God . . .
go in.

A dazzling sough,
The wind blows through, across the stunning white clouds, to Earth,
A dearness of the whistling, carrying a, warm breeze makes it worth
Worth but to say nothing less than; praise the new coming day!
Rustling the leafs, shaking them, letting them dance, then sway,
The wind is a transient traveler, rushing through this worldly life,
Gathering clouds together, a delicate drizzle is what they strive for,
Distorting, carrying, leading them towards the ground, wettening them in a scenery of a wonderous sight, fertilising the soil more,
Howling in a showering yet intimitating sense of the changing scene,
Blowing over each drop of pure water on the green coloured grass,
Spring is truly a season where dreams can sore,
It gives us the idea of something greater, something more,
Coming with ups, then downs, it gets carried away by the wind,
Until finally, the sunny days of summer are to come,
Sit down with me, listen to the sighing of the wind, don't be lonesome
By the sound it makes, the gentle song which blows through our ears
Can you hear it whispering ?

~ Umi

I see you, monster...
In your sockets bore dead, dark eyes
They hold the blackest of stares
Nebulous swirling pits of demise

Thin lips would spout the most sibilant of hisses
Every so often would curl into a snarl
Dry and chapped, almost unworthy of kisses

Large, rough snout, jutting out like a crag
You sniff around tirelessly for easy targets
Preying on the unsuspecting minds of those under your flag

Tapering chin, sprouting strands of coarse hair
Unkempt and gritty from your last meal
Decaying teeth, crooked due to little to no care

Your face is cratered; tales of trying adolescent years
Wearing a face only a mother could love
Expressionless but it screams out your fears

Ugly jointed limbs that grew out of sync
Disproportionate, misshapen, grotesque
Little noggin with sparse hair, packed within, a brain that thinks


I hear you, monster...
As you stalk your sleepless nights
Nocturnal ambience be your playground
Lurking in the dark; places with no light

Bulky, heavy feet but deft and silent
Can barely notice when you're up and about
As if cloaked yourself stealthy, with steps ever transient

Respire you do, exhaling breaths so gnarly
Ingesting good air, converting into fervid, loathsome notions
With which you paint a portrait so ghastly


I feel you monster...
Deep within the recesses of my heart
Destroying and distorting all that was pure
Testing my will till I should fall apart

You're but the twisted manifestation of conscience
Feeding on my trials and nurturing them into vile abominations
I despise that of you but I seem to have developed dependence


I see you, monster...**
You're horrid and beastly, an embodiment of absolute horror
I await the day that you would finally dissolve
For I am weary of seeing you staring back in the mirror

A man, who never believed in Gods,
Refused to acknowledge the supremacy of the imperialist British Lords,
Challenged imperialist world empire with stubbornness,
Wished to build a peaceful superpower country, with farsightedness.

Through his reading, kept himself on evolution,
Sowed in the hearts of Indian youth, the seeds of revolution,
Raising and threatening administrative tones,
Stood fearful and could only break his bones.

From, soviet World misunderstood,
Revolution a product of blood & bullet,
He approached and transformed revolution,
A product of inspiring pen and booklet.

Never limited himself to fight for boundaries of administrative right,
Expanded himself in the jail to throw away human plight,
Fought a death-nearing battle to regain the human right,
To finally set all things for his jail mates completely right.

Pen is mightier than sword,
His life bore testimony to prove that record,
When others attempted for freedom movement to nurture,
He dreamt and worked for building his country a beautiful future.

Born an ordinary Sikh man,
Misinterpreted a lunatic gunman,

Lived a life of comrades,
Hated in every step, caste, religious and gender retrogrades,
Wanted to save his country from blood-******* renegades,
Decided to break all the youth-distorting barricades,
And put his life to a mortgaging death trade.

Lived a life of an unselfish tree,
Decided to give his life to witness the country free,
Evolved his life, a chapter of sacrifice,
Offered overprice to fight the imposed injustice & cowardice.


His physical life remained short-lived and temporary,
Lived for the country to set an example for ideal revolutionary,
Beaten by humanimal imperialists, black and blue,
Opened the youths towards fight for freedom, on a new avenue.

Imperialist empire remained pathetically cruel,
His thoughts & phenomenon inspired a never ending fuel,
For the youths, to sacrifice themselves for liberation of the soil,
Through revolutionary paths, filled with constant sufferings and toil.

The world personified, revolution is,
Red, blood, blood and blood,
He defied and responded, revolution is,
Think, evolve, unite, and change, by the act of read, read, read and read.

He proclaimed a desperate need,
To get ourselves away from disturbing ****,
Sowed the fire of revolutionary seed,
Thus stated to read, read and read.

Imperialist empires killed people like blood-******* vampires,
He fought and responded, with the shot of a demonstrative gunfire,
When ordinary humans aimed to save their family,
Every millisecond, lived a life, personifying whole country his family.

Like a wood that offers light, and burns itself in fire,
Gave freedom a ray of light, submitted himself happily into the death wire,
For revolution, turned the court his Centre of propaganda,
Responded the ruthless imperialist, a warning memoranda.

On the imperialist death rope, he was killed
The batons he passed for the youths of next generations,
His final dream for India, still unfulfilled,
On the presence of present blood-******* politicians,

A baby that never cries on starvation,
A child that never starves for education,
A youth who never roams around to get dignified occupation,
Let’s at least work and fight towards, fulfilling this mission.

Iron which has been exposed to the rain, is likely to become rusty.
Weakening, brcoming fragile along the way, changing colours.
Because it couldn't resist the cruel, cold, pungent, sharp rain,
which has been brought by onimous, dark, clouds.
Those have come to claim the heavens, in malice, for themselves as they spread their offspring, letting it fall to the earth, fertilising it.
Once standing proud, the iron faced the weather carelessly, brave,
in such sense that it might have looked intimidating, impressive and
of course noble to some degree.
But for now it has aged, has become frail, feeble and slender.
Distorting its structure until suddenly it is not capable of holding
itself together, falling back down to the earth from which it came.
With enough care and treatment, such a fate would be avoidable,
But it is overlooked, chosen to be replaced instead of getting enough attention and so the metal decays in its oxidation, through time.
Until all of it has become a soft, crumbling powder.
Ruined by the simple raindrops, coming from a stormy day.

~ Umi

Spasming in life’s web,
Clustering under eight legged dreads,
Watching some rise from its smother,
But only for short pathetic seconds.

I watch many downfalls,
Idle in wait for my own,
Seizuring with a horrible burden,
Fortune telling with no end fortune.

All mere blinded mirrors laying in wait,
Distorting the spidery figure differently,
Mine reflects its harsh fangs and nature,
Others reflects admiration towards the creator.

The web a complex beauty,
But I can’t claim cruelty home,
The ripples of intertwined death,
Some by father...foe...or friend.

The inhumane humanity,
Puppets and the almighty player,
Cloud me from things called prayer,
For that hope must be alive and well.

I’m just waiting for my bones to decay,
Peace in nothingness or so you claim flames,
Free from the *******
And all that it stands for.

I’m an unholy ghost.

Oh, I know not!
I see not, and master not!
Why t'is caprice - t'is tender whim, is unwilling
to unveil my soul, conquering it with
mounds and plates of rapturous
yet canonical attention. How I dread
such falsehood! Strong, strong falsehood!
What an inconsiderate urgency! A matter, matter of the heart -
as mighty as it probably is, of its own accord! How serious
t'is would be! I am suffrage; and akin to its vigour areth my laugh,
and joy - I would be hatred if none cameth to stop my pace;
my frosty haze; and t'is gruesome maze! Yes, I would but be,
in th' length of some furt'er days!
I shalt no more be of t'is delight, and clustered inside my gloom,
pressed to th' walls of dainty loom; from which I shalt never
be comely enough to be granted an escape.
How terrifying t'ose scenes areth, to me! A poet as I am,
unenviable is my littleness, and humility; to t'ose who glare with jealousy
at pangs of my laughter, and childlike demands - as how t'ey always
chastised during t'eir coincidental encounters. But I am blessed!
I am blessed by my words - and t'ese cheerful, yet unending poems -
as unlike t'em I am, ungrateful and vile beings, flocking to th' church
only for th' sake of brand-new dowry, and enforced blessings.
Murderers of peace! Sons and daughters of vice! But I am convinced
t'at virtue shalt forever tower over t'em; and in th' right time t'ey shalt
be pulled off t'eir horses, and unedifying pleasantry. And goodness
shalt t'en win! For truth never bears t'eir unfaithful boasts, just like
it hates t'eir dishonesty; which so insistingly frosts me
with atrocity within 'tis lungs, and so soon as doth it start to cling stronger -
abashed shalt I be! Incarcerated shalt be my front, and dutiful
countenance - in t'at gross conflagration with secular flatness,
hesitations, and worldly doubts, in which yon grotesque salutation, corroborating
'tis assailed countenance, gouty and drained by rightful mockery;
comes but to avenge my love, my wondrous love -
which yesterday was dazzling and dripping fast
but contentiously, like a ripe cherry. Like a small burst of wine
craved by scholarly epicures, t'is feeling but anonymously grips
my lips, trembles my heart, and distracts my limbs;
should I be to think of thee, I shan't but be away
from t'is nauseatedness, of regrets, again! My thee, my thee,
areth thou truly gazing at me from afar? With fascination in thy stares,
wilt thou bestow me such destiny I hath been so desirous of - my dear?
And with thy serene, bulbous eyes - t'at sea of blackness
basked in marred turmoil - ah, a sign but of peace after such fire! - wilt thou
mould thy mind, thy stony mind, like a black-painted rose,
to throw at my being, just one, voluntary glance?
I am but anxious, my love, how I shake all over
with unreturned passion like t'is, my blood is circling
in distorting, yet irrepressible agitation.
How I wish t'at thou could be here, and rendereth me safe, in solely
but thy arms, my love! And shalt thou be my giddy knight - I entreat!
In my unmothered dreams, and t'eir precocious brambles - on t'ose journeys
of loom, doth I fear not, for thou shalt be t'ere to mirthfully comfort me.
And off shalt I fly again, to greet th' thoughtful morning!
But ought I to leaveth my dreams now; for thou canst be here to celebrate
t'is snowy day, and lift me onto triumph! And how I wisheth to cast away
t'is imprisonment, how I longeth for but thee here - just thee, remember t'at,
o but hark to my swift whisper, t'at calls only for thy name, my love!
How aggravated, and corrupted my conscience wilt be -
within th' membranes of my brain; t'eir hardship is severed by thy unpresence.
My love, o my restrained - single love, t'is ode that lights my soul
shalt illuminate thine; and 'tis long words - threads woven along
an abstracted lullaby, and vanquished by silent accusations, from thy, thy mouth!
A well t'at is perilous in its standing - standing like a torch, unruptured
albeit neglected, innocent in 'tis acute forlornness. Poor misery!
Hark, hark, my love - how t'ose dames, irresolute in t'eir volatility, and
charms of miraculous beauty - but tumultous inside, entranced by fear
of losing which, as so graciously raved and ranted all over th' year!
Th' dreary years - which th' above phrase caused me to be well-reminded,
and duly recall how t'eir sickening remorse tossed me around; and decreed
my jests of dread, sickness, and disdain - surges, and waves of animosity
wert but all about me. But how they areth happening again! Amongst th' snow -
running about as t'ey art, t'ose heartless, indignant creatures -
blind to th' tenderness of nature, bland and untouched by its shrieks, and
flickering toil! How I wish to save it, but incapable as I am - a minuscule shadow
of early womanhood t'at I own, I choose to stay distant,
and pray for t'eir impossible atonement, somehow, before t'ey entereth
t'eir silent graves. How t'ose ghosts of malice areth in no way acquainted
with th' woes of th' churchyard, and th' grimness of death - I declare!
How unafraid t'ey are, sacrificing t'is coherent life for such courses
of abomination. Victories upon th' misery of others,
dances to mourning songs, how evil! But I wish for t'eir salvation,
for t'ey art unable to even salve t'eir poor selves. I shalt be fervent
in my generosity, for 'tis th' most rewarding part of humanity;
I shalt be but a faithful servant to my innocuous nature. I adoreth my nature
just the way 'tis, and I shalt build its madly-scarred way back; with tons
of brightness, care, and hearty bliss! Yes, my love, my bliss - which inhabits
th' entire space of my maturity and unmolested passion. Inapprehensible as it is,
I am but to win its grace, and t'erefore thee - just as I hath so ardently dreameth of -
as heretofore, and shalt thou but be saluted and fended for
by my, my sincere and unbinding, affection.

Just a girl
Elbows on the window sill
Head in her hands
Watching the rain splash on the window
Distorting the view
Making shapes and colours
As the rain drops fall.
A shiver
She wraps her arms around her
Wishing its was someone else’s strong arms
Takes a jumper
Caus she knows it’s the only fluffy warm feeling
She will feel in a while.
Just a girl
Looking through the window
Wondering who is out there
Is there someone out there for me
Pulling the jumper tighter
Head back in her hands
Watching the rain
Distorting the view ……….

A cuckoo sings its first spring voice
The cider maker cracks his cork on this year’s choice
English apples presented from pre years press
Picked and selected to impress
Bottled and ready for drinkers wide and far
Vision distorting with every jar

From orchards up and down the land
Drinkers search the best in town
Scrumpy be the drinkers rot
Weak willed should try it not

A test once tasted of a brewers fare
An enjoyment discovered but just take care
For once you have past the half way mark
You’ll soon be singing and dancing with the larks

A hall of distorted mirrors is what I gaze into
When I try to sort out my problems
A reflection that rings perceivably clean and clear
But theirs something I’m just not getting
The wishing well is all but dried up and theirs no hope left

With muscles taught its difficult to read her emotions
But her mind is made up and the statement is made
Like a weight lifting the pressure from her chest and shoulders
She will not retract her statement towards me
She just doesn’t want to see my face around this neighborhood anymore
And I’m gazing into hall of distorted mirrors
I can’t seem to realize what is happening
I think I’ve thrown these pebbles
Against her windowsill for long enough
And now their dents have become cracks
While the dogs bark into the moon
And the neighbors they turn on their lights
I should really realize when no means no
Thorns could pierce above my beloved head
Like Jesus and his suffering I’ve endured pain for long enough
No longer want the pain of your suffering
To dampen and worsen the already depressing sadness
Of my current mood
She just doesn’t want to see my face around this neighborhood anymore
No second chances or opportunities lurk around the corner
And I’m gazing into a hall of greatly distorted mirrors
Unable to pinpoint where my problems are
Wait any longer and she’ll call the cops
Or worse her older brother
To teach me a lesson
When she says she doesn’t want to see my
Around this neighborhood anymore

Peace of mind is ephemeral,
drifting in harmony, then abruptly skewed.
The quintessence of humanity lost in the blink of an eye.
A gravitational pull overwhelms
Persistent
Tugs at the edges of reality
Patient
Disseminates thoughts, life
Painful
There is no escape as the jarring force draws inward,
voraciously swallowing everything in reach.

Distorting changes,
a myriad of sights, sounds,
besiege a troubled mind.

Blackness
Heavy and infinite
A suffocating contradiction to everything that was.
Ripping, tearing
Impossible void of compressed nothingness.
Twisting, rearranging
Pretentious "used to be"s into trembling trepidation,
too adrift to find the way back.

This is the point of no return.
Who is that person in the mirror now?

tears have colour

red
fresh tears created in battles
they gnaw away at the wounds
dashing away in torrents
uncontrolled
wild
draining and savage
mixing with the red rain
the acid of injury
the trail is ****** and raw
rubble left drenched
painted
then soaked to the core
the phase of red tears.

purple
here begins
the agony of the heart
purple tears
are razors
they slice
cutting away
at a mind left in tatters
shredding itself within loops
purple tears leak randomly
chasing the what ifs
around and around and around
on tilted merry-go-rounds
spraying centrifugal patterns
onto canvases previously untouched
the phase of purple tears

black
tears of black herald possession
symptoms of poison
the rot of insult
moral injury tracking through veins
distorting sight
and clouding the remnant mind
black tears ooze
sticky with regret and anger
they recreate battles
some that never happened
they fuel the movies of revenge
give off a cold smoke
that distorts time
they can shine brightly
creating the illusion
of strength and restoration
black tears are the trap
offering paths down perpetual loops
the phase of black tears

blue
these tears are tricky
they look normal
but carry the code of injury
blue tears are loaded with emotion
irrationally
they course away in silent sobs
leaving the DNA of injury
residue on everything they touch
unwanted and unwarranted
they track along the scars left behind
those barely healed from the red phase
blue tears are often habit forming pastimes
shoehorning themselves into the spaces where
the light has begun to shine through
chasing away the recovered moments of normal
they crave medication
and feed on isolation
they are needy fellows
and linger haplessly
the phase of blue tears

green
marks a turn in the path
green tears are productive
rewards for growth
indicating better days
more steps forward than back
sometimes they smell sweet
and are infused with joy
and in an odd combination with happiness
tactile responses to finding a way back
not to where you came from
but to where you are mean to be
green tears have no shadows
the come from a different origins
they heal pain while documenting memories
new skill learnt
converting dark to light through green
not easily replicated
a new born foal on wobbly legs
they take time to master
forgiveness is possible with them engaged
the phase of green tears

so explains the colours in the *evolution of tears



@journeyofdays

turning her charms so slow.
he smiles,
in the wetness of his reward
cranking and cranking!
winding her in notch after notch
tormenting her to madness.

all her dreams melt into him
as his promised shards hit deep
****** after ******!
his jagged edge cuts to bleed
her mind and body
leading her to a valley of darkness

bellows and cries
relentlessly in her crescent moon
the moans swelling
from the corners of her abyss
he stabs wildly
in the glare of her darkshine

leaving the streaks of fingerprints
across her window pane
devilishly in his detail of precision
distorting her pleasure in pain
the legs of her willingness spread wide

her Innocence weeps nectar
tears from the depths of her
obscene layers of unseen obsession
unfold the heated flower
of her awaken phoenix-fire

tightening the gaps of her resistances
enraging his beast to survival
forcing his fight for freedom
thrashing away
his ***** courage leading the way

she finally surrenders
to his death blows
in total disregard in retaliation
she strikes a venomous bite
to his throat and lips
her poisonous kiss

their last breath shares
perspiration's sweet scent of exhaustion
as their life force drains to one
from their lust of the battle
in their pursuit to win the war of passion

What a trivial title
for a trivial poem
What I consider meaningful
Is just mere dirt to someone else

It all comes down to what you believe in
And what you believe will make you happy and make you whole
That is where meaning is held

I awake tired and the snippets of my dreams that I recall perplex me
I ponder: What is my subconscious trying to tell me
But I find no pattern with the fragments
And I leave it be for another unsolved mystery.

Is everything OK in my life?
Or is everything falling to pieces?
I can't seem to discern this clearly
My perceptions are distorting my view on reality
But even if life was beyond everything I have ever hoped for right at this moment
I couldn't fathom pure happiness
In this strife ridden world

Mermaids exist through our mind's capacity to fantasize
And that's where happiness comes from
Our ability to conjure something that is not real or is scarce on earth
Happiness is as real as mermaids.

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Tho our minds crave the storm for attention
It does as no one asks,
Showering rough upon us
Distorting our water proof masks.

My
      thoughts
                 are
distorting
     my
         feelings
someone
              say
                  I'm
        ­              
dreaming..

Sun cascading through the window,
The Mountains my blanket
Everything in its right place, and I in mine
For surely life is a wonderful thing
and I am no mistake.

Can a person be defined by a word? Can we, in reality chain a person to one word, or even a great sum of words? Can all that is encompassed within each individual human being, be summed up with a word, a description, a label? For the very meaning of word is a unit of language, consisting of one or more spoken sounds or their written representation, that functions as a principal carrier of meaning. Are words the most effective "carrier of meaning"? Or is it possible that there might just be something more, something deeper? This makes me think of the quote from The Mozart Effect, where Don Cambell says, “On the psychiatrist’s couch, the board of the local PTA, or at a job interview, we strive to assert our identity as strong, independent persons, our persona or public mask—all from the Greek roots per son, or ‘the sound passes through.’” Our very core nature is that we desire to hear a vocal confirmation of who we are and labeling ourselves and others with words, gives us a false security. The way we are labeled and seen and judged passes through us, it effects us to our core. When someone “fails” they are then in turn labeled a “failure”? My question is, by labeling a person who has made mistakes, or is even continuing to make mistakes a f a i l u r e , are we really encompassing all that is within them when we say the word “failure” and chain it around their neck? Is every action that they have done a “failure”? Do they not also have things that are successful about them, and isn’t simply their state of being a success?

I am convinced that we are all on the same level, one person no greater than another person. No person a mistake, no person a failure. For let us all challenge ourselves to not define people but rather feel them, seek to understand them. Let us really see them, for who they are, not for who we think they are or what we may see. Like the quote from T.S Elliot’s book Family Reunion, where it says
“I tell you, it is not me you are looking at, Not me you are grinning at, not me your confidential looks incriminate, but that other person, if person, You thought I was: let your necrophilia feed upon that carcass.”

Or the quote from the Invisible Man,
“I am an invisible man. No, I am not a ***** like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasm. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids- and I might even be said to posses a mind. I am invisible; understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless head surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination-indeed, everything and anything except me.”


These are both excellent examples of how our own judgments, preoccupation with our problems or ourselves, anything and everything, can distract us from really getting to know someone, to understanding them in the cell of their heart. For if we were silent and simply allowed the music of life surround us, we would listen and hear, the people when they spoke. For “to listen is to vibrate together with another human being.” And how eloquently Lao Tzu said that, I can’t think of a better way to describe what I am trying to say. What a provocative way to think about the simple act of listening. Think of feeling what people are saying as two harps being played in perfect unison, vibrating together. To really hear someone we must reach a place where we can be receptive to whom they really are, throwing aside our preconceived ideas.

How could we take the sacred and beautiful act of listening and distort it into something that is so uninvolved, so impersonal? How can we, how can I, constantly throw away the precious gem that is to listen, only to pick up the garbage of judgment and lack of concern? I’m convinced that constantly doing this has left quite a toll on the human race. When was the last time you felt that someone got you, really got you, or saw past your flaws or the masks you wear and simply heard you, felt your pain, knew where you were coming from, simply was just there with you? Chances are it’s probably not often. I believe that no matter the outward appearance or what people do that it’s the state of their heart that matters. We are all fallible because we are h u m a n, so when people in their own state of humanity, hurt us, let us choose not to take offence, but rather choose to see past our own pain and see their own pain that caused them to hurt us.

I believe there is beauty in our shortcomings, and humanity. Not that we continue to remain the way we’ve always been but rather accept that we are flawed and that can’t do this on our own, and then we will begin to grow. In our state of being humbled and broken, we grow, we change, we transform. Slowly and surely as the flower that springs from the cold ground and bursts forth from it’s shell and becomes something completely different, we as humans will break through our own “shells”. First we must admit that we have flaws for this process to begin. Being flawed is beautiful because it’s something everyone shares. We’ve all been hurt, but once we come to the place where we understand the pain behind the flaws and see how we can’t possibly judge anyone because we all have flaws, we all have failed.

We are all equals. We are all connected. We are all sons and daughters of humanity. We are connected to the earliest of times and the latest of times.

What happens to someone on the other side of the earth does in fact, effect us. I believe because we are numb to the reality of that connection, never listening, never feeling, that we miss the beauty of this great fellowship of human beings. When we isolate ourselves, not only are we denying ourselves that desire to b e l o n g that dwells in our innermost being, but we also can begin to elevate ourselves over another person. Which leaves me to wonder why we spend our lives awarding ourselves for being better then the person next to us, not doing what they did, when shouldn’t we be listening to them, hearing them, seeing them for who they are in their own brokenness, and helping them through?

We spend our lives harboring anger towards and event, person, or even ourselves and judging and comparing ourselves on a made up idealistic scale to define our worth. We are already worth so much simply because we are humans, and we are alive. Is not even a single rose still admired by the gardener? We are special, and if someone were to bring all the wealth of the world to offer for one person, or to measure the worth of that person, it would not even begin to compare to our worth, no matter our mistakes or who we are.

Just as we hurt and long to be accepted and approved of, so does the person that has hurt you or the person you see yourself as better then. Do we not feel our connection to humanity when we feel the sense of deep loss in our spirit, our innermost being, when our actions cause pain to another person? So since we are all one, all connected, why not shower people with love and grace and feel them, feel with them, instead of labeling them and trying to judge ourselves against them.

We have exhausted ourselves by denying ourselves the basic needs to be known, loved, heard, connected, and accepted, for far too long. It’s time for change, in both my life and the lives of those around me. We’re beaten and bruised from holding on to our anger, relentlessly trying to gain approval, judging our own mistakes and comparing them to others to see if our mistakes were ‘slightly less bad then those of the other person’. If we would set aside those chains that imprison us, and allow ourselves to feel the pain of others, allow them to see our own pain, then, although we will never reach perfection, we will grow, the deep yearnings and aches of our body crying out to be known and our pain from the wrongs done to us will stop.

If we’re willing to bare the burden of feeling with someone, or simply allowing ourselves to just be, exist, beside someone who’s hurting and be open to simply let the sound, the vibrations of their words penetrate our souls, then, and only then will our lives and the lives of others be drastically changed for the better. It would be infectious; spreading to every person we came into contact with, causing a worldwide revolution.

So what I’m saying is even after all this, I believe in changed lives, I believe that our impact on others is far greater then we will ever know.I believe that one single person, no matter how flawed, who stops for one moment and simply listens to another human being, and sees them as they are, then proceeds to reach inside their chest to reveal their beating, heart, alive and full of dreams, will change that person forever, whether we see it right away or never see it. It's the same in our lives, we may never see the fruits of our labor, but we must focus on the goal and not the distance needed to reach our goal. We impact people. When we judge people or don’t see them for who they are, they become dead to us, they can no longer change into who they were meant to be, or we simply do not hear them, the passions and dreams are not awakened, and in doing this, we are robbing ourselves the joy of knowing someone, investing in them, and seeing them change and they feel the effects too.

We all need to be awakened from being the living dead, to a state of constant awareness of our body and all our senses and the surroundings around us, the people around us. People as a whole are hurting so deeply, and I believe that one person can in fact change that. All it takes is one [broken] person to spark the flame and soon, others, much like kindling for a fire, will catch ablaze. I believe, that we must allow ourselves to climb into another person’s skin and feel, and see the world as they do.

We must realize that we are no better then one another, for we are all broken and need one another. I believe that no one is hopeless, no one a lost cause, for if we take the time to listen to them and care for them, something in them will change no matter what we may see on the outside. In this investing and caring, listening and feeling, seeing and believing, we will awaken in both the people around us and in ourselves the dreams which we thought for so long to be dead, and the world will see change like it has never been seen before in history.

I’m not saying that I have any of this down pat, I’m not by any means a model for not judging someone and seeing them and hearing them. If anything, I am the complete opposite of this consumed in my own problems and too busy to stop and feel. This is my apology of some sort to those i have hurt, and giving recognition to those who have helped me along the way. So thanks for believing in me. I believe that it’ll take some time, but that I can and will gradually change into someone who is aware of people around them, someone who is awakened. Even when my actions, are completely opposite of everything I’ve just talked about, there is still a part of me that is quietly reminding me to humble myself and see myself for who I am, no more, no less, and then see others for who they are. Somehow, I’m going to get to where I want to go, and I’m going to become who I want to become, I just have a lot of judgmental ideals, preconceived ideas, bitterness, pain, and self-absorption to leave behind to step into who I want to become. So I’m going to commit to this journey even if it means sometimes the only thing I can do is just be, in my failures and my success, and even when the pain seems unbearable, it is my deepest desire to stay on this path. I want to change and help the people around me, but before I can do that I have a lot of work to do.

Portentous enunciation, syllable
To blessed syllable affined, and sound
Bubbling felicity in cantilene,
Prolific and tormenting tenderness
Of music, as it comes to unison,
Forgather and bell boldly Crispin's last
Deduction. Thrum, with a proud douceur
His grand pronunciamento and devise.

The chits came for his jigging, bluet-eyed,
Hands without touch yet touching poignantly,
Leaving no room upon his cloudy knee,
Prophetic joint, for its diviner young.
The return to social nature, once begun,
Anabasis or slump, ascent or chute,
Involved him in midwifery so dense
His cabin counted as phylactery,
Then place of vexing palankeens, then haunt
Of children nibbling at the sugared void,
Infants yet eminently old, then dome
And halidom for the unbraided femes,
Green crammers of the green fruits of the world,
Bidders and biders for its ecstasies,
True daughters both of Crispin and his clay.
All this with many mulctings of the man,
Effective colonizer sharply stopped
In the door-yard by his own capacious bloom.
But that this bloom grown riper, showing nibs
Of its eventual roundness, puerile tints
Of spiced and weathery rouges, should complex
The stopper to indulgent fatalist
Was unforeseen. First Crispin smiled upon
His goldenest demoiselle, inhabitant,
She seemed, of a country of the capuchins,
So delicately blushed, so humbly eyed,
Attentive to a coronal of things
Secret and singular. Second, upon
A second similar counterpart, a maid
Most sisterly to the first, not yet awake
Excepting to the motherly footstep, but
Marvelling sometimes at the shaken sleep.
Then third, a thing still flaxen in the light,
A creeper under jaunty leaves. And fourth,
Mere blusteriness that gewgaws jollified,
All din and gobble, blasphemously pink.
A few years more and the vermeil capuchin
Gave to the cabin, lordlier than it was,
The dulcet omen fit for such a house.
The second sister dallying was shy
To fetch the one full-pinioned one himself
Out of her botches, hot embosomer.
The third one gaping at the orioles
Lettered herself demurely as became
A pearly poetess, peaked for rhapsody.
The fourth, pent now, a digit curious.
Four daughters in a world too intricate
In the beginning, four blithe instruments
Of differing struts, four voices several
In couch, four more personae, intimate
As buffo, yet divers, four mirrors blue
That should be silver, four accustomed seeds
Hinting incredible hues, four self-same lights
That spread chromatics in hilarious dark,
Four questioners and four sure answerers.

Crispin concocted doctrine from the rout.
The world, a turnip once so readily plucked,
Sacked up and carried overseas, daubed out
Of its ancient purple, pruned to the fertile main,
And sown again by the stiffest realist,
Came reproduced in purple, family font,
The same insoluble lump. The fatalist
Stepped in and dropped the chuckling down his craw,
Without grace or grumble. Score this anecdote
Invented for its pith, not doctrinal
In form though in design, as Crispin willed,
Disguised pronunciamento, summary,
Autumn's compendium, strident in itself
But muted, mused, and perfectly revolved
In those portentous accents, syllables,
And sounds of music coming to accord
Upon his law, like their inherent sphere,
Seraphic proclamations of the pure
Delivered with a deluging onwardness.
Or if the music sticks, if the anecdote
Is false, if Crispin is a profitless
Philosopher, beginning with green brag,
Concluding fadedly, if as a man
Prone to distemper he abates in taste,
Fickle and fumbling, variable, obscure,
Glozing his life with after-shining flicks,
Illuminating, from a fancy gorged
By apparition, plain and common things,
Sequestering the fluster from the year,
Making gulped potions from obstreperous drops,
And so distorting, proving what he proves
Is nothing, what can all this matter since
The relation comes, benignly, to its end?

So may the relation of each man be clipped.

When I was a little girl I loved going to the fair.
seeing the clowns
rides
and carnies.
but my favorite thing to see at the fair is the fun house
Remember those?
Where mirrors flooded the walls bending towards you
distorting the image you saw to one of absurd portions
Nose swelling larger
legs shrinking
hips inflating.
I loved seeing the shapes my body could take.
...I haven't been to a fun house in years.
And even if I went I know the mirrors would look like those that hang in my room.
Body dysmorphia is it's own fun house
one full of insecurities and self-hate.
It makes regular mirrors bend my perception of reality.
Makes my stomach bloat
thighs inflate
cheeks widen
eyes shrink
My mind has turned into a trapeze act
And I don't know if i want it to stop.

The euphoric parallax, the vast.
The concealed, the intangible known.
The indifferent future, the decaying past.
The inconsistent, looping drone.
The lengths of our splendid slumber.
With both laugh and loathe entwined.
Bears witness to the wonders
Of our consciousness - sublime.
The falling from a heightened frightful.
The embarrassment of youth.
The promise of danger - delightful.
And the grand purpose - aloof.

All is vivid. All is bright.
All the colour stains the light.
All things hazy. All things merge.
All connected. All converge.
In the early, in the old.
In the fresh and the fatigued.
In the clear and the controlled.
In the apt and obsolete.
Where days come to end their lives.
To bask in the blurred glow.
To steer the sky behind our eyes.
And allow our liquid thoughts the flow.

Time's waste - the wondrous tragedy.
Mourned hour after hour.
The inescapable catastrophe.
The sad, slow devour.
Sight, to the dull of eyes.
Stability, in the earthless turn.
Tranquility, in every sigh.
Truth, in what we're yet to learn.
Here you hear the happiness.
And the sadness of the stars.
They share a song - synonymous.
They sing to us from afar.

Stumbling through the shapeless silence.
Merging with the mangled mess.
Tampering with the truly timeless.
Engulfed in what we can't caress.
The vague and subtle sightings.
Through the chaos of your plan.
Into the long wait for nothing.
Which kills the heart of man.
In the all encompassing loom.
Where you can finally be alone.
Your mind - a fragile bloom.
And the void, your only throne.

A state of elasticity.
A transparent mirrored wealth.
The nook of all necessity.
An eternal nocturnal self.
Where does this calm originate
That seems so unprepared?
Who truly can appreciate
The blankness of its stare?
Imagination meets mere memory.
Rearranging what we think we know.
Distorting what we want to see.
Inspiring how we hope to grow.

Now see the minds that wander.
With the twisting of the trees.
With the certainty of thunder.
And the warm, empty breeze.
We have to leave, we have to go.
Back to where we loathe but know.
We want to breathe, we want to glow.
We want the reap but not the sow.
The change that you so fear.
Roams the halls of this distortion.
It pauses, sways and veers.
In ceaseless, cruel contortions.

There is something that here dwells.
Something small. Something real.
In our greetings and farewells.
In all we see, hear and feel.
It writes itself on our faces.
It penetrates into our sleep.
And although we can escape it.
Into our subtleties it seeps.
On a buoyant float of black.
The black of vacant oceans.
It throws what we still lack.
Into monstrous swirling motions.

From the canvas of infinite infancy.
With broken wisdom blushed.
Forgotten almost instantly.
In your dazed, waking rush.
To a mountainous climb of morning.
We share the sun of skies.
For it wears the warming.
And the opening of eyes.
But how fine the line is drawn.
Between the sleeping and the aware.
Between the smiles and the forlorn.
Between the dream and the nightmare.

Lace and old scraps of paper
buried deep in my heart
Lined my pockets once I see
but they tore apart.
They dwell on my mind
wafting through my being
Distorting images, blanking out
from what I ought to be seeing.

A descriptive word
I not often would present
To myself
Has been cast in blindness
By the spotlight

The curtain distorts
The intentions
Of even my own
Acknowledgment

Dwelling at my reflection in the water
When ripples form
At another coin I toss
Wishing

Wishing at a well
Instead of planning,
Because planning
Makes the dream real,
And I’m afraid of reality.

I could spend my whole life
Staring into my reflection
Debating on what I'm worthy of wishing,
Instead of not letting those thoughts
Take over my mind
Fidgeting with coins between my fingers
Before I inevitably let flick,
Instead of pretending I believe in myself
And take a chance on something.

Why would I rather
Be alone
Than run into
Your open arms
Waiting for me?

What things are so important
That I cannot just turn away
So easily?
Doing nothing
Instead of loving.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Is it just me, or is it difficult to speak

To people of differing nationalities.

Experiencing horrid miscommunications,

Distorting perception from reality.


I hope I am the only one

so none must share my discontent

Of speaking with language barriers

Between differening continents.


Even if they speak the same language,

Some things don't translate.

Apparently some colloquialisms

Can cause most to miscommunicate...

August is a time for remorse.
A time for memories,
swelling up and distorting one's vision.
The ripeness of summer has withered
under the harsh July heat,
leaving behind a shriveled skeleton of time.

August is a time of love.
Emotions that have been accumulating through June,
subtly burst through the seams,
oblivious to the Goodbyes,
lurking right beyond the bend.

August is a time of forgotten promises,
of the misled see you later,
so often mumbled from lover's lips.
The scent of leaving lingers in the air,
creating a bitter aftertaste,
mixed with the flavor of devotion.
For, forever doesn't mix well with farewell.

August is a time of silence.
A time where a single word might betray a hidden feeling,
that is swelling up beyond the bend of casual conversation.

August is a time of noise.
Where "I love you" and "see you soon",
drown out the static of reality.
Where loneliness is judged by the tangible,
and everyone is afraid of being left.

August is a time of leaving.
Minutes become muddled with sentiment, moving like molasses,
dripping slowly into the oncoming hour,
overflowing with empty formalities.

August has no tolerance for long goodbyes;
which fester like an open wound in the middle of the day.
No, August is parting in silence,
with one's final words uttered in the darkness,
the moon and stars as the only witnesses.

August is a time of closure,
not the type seen in movies,
full of mundane routines.
Accompanied by tears and terse observations,
"Your coat appears worn thin, my dear".

August is the closure that comes in the middle of the night,
when it is least expected.
It is neither welcomed,
nor is it pushed aside.
It comes as easily as sleep,
nestling into the deepest corners of one's soul.

Sometimes August isn't recognized,
until December.
After it has faded into the hazy realm,
which all past months inhabit.
Its only legacy is etched upon our souls,
haunting our every thought,
in the most lovely way:

August is a time of growing up,
of forgotten forever's,
full of the sweetest intent.

I have felt like an outsider
Ever since my childhood ended
When I was left with a gaping
Hole carved by the one who loved me.
And I know he adores me still
But he is too far away now
That I cannot reciprocate
His feelings. Though I do admit,
I allow myself to succumb
To nostalgia once in a while.

My true friend gone, I bounced around
Different groups of people trying
To find my place in a sea of
Jealousy and competition.
I'm so thankful I got to know
The ones I did because they were
Beautiful and fascinating
In their own distinctive manner.
For a while I thought I found one
But I soon began to realize
That I had been brainwashed into
Thinking that I loved these people,
When really I didn't know them
And they didn't care to know me.

My world shattered and so did I;
Frantically trying to pick up
The pieces so I could be whole.
But my memories and thoughts of
The past eighteen years were too much
For me to pick up on my own.
One day while blindly moving in
The dark, I ran into one of
You who found a part of me on
The ground. You seemed to recognize
A shattered soul so you grabbed some
Glue and you called your friends asking
For help reassembling me.

Together, you made the cracks not
As obvious to those who looked;
But every time I peered in the
Mirror, there they were distorting
The image of myself and those
Around me.  But before you could
Repair that, we all went away
To separate places and I had
To try and fix the cracks myself.
But I only had so many
Hands so I built an elaborate
Device to keep me intact as
I mended each imperfection.

And that's how he found me, trying
To fix something he was convinced
Wasn't broken in the slightest.  
He unhooked me from the device
Then set me down and forced me to
Look at myself in the mirror.
For the first time in a long time
I saw my face and all of yours
Smiling in the reflection as
If to say "Now do you see us?"

All that's left is to remember
I must check the mirror every
So often so I can see your
Faces full of love and support
And see that I am not alone

when the past does not fade and disappear
we're forced to confront it to face the pain
of solid memory to feel all again
within each mind something in the dull air
weighs down upon us with the weight of care
while every face reflects the groaning strain
and total terror that we can see plain
when nothing's left to mankind but raw fear
the once safe garden now becomes a cage
by our own efforts  for we are so dense
we cannot see the function of a wall
is to hold in not just to keep out rage
that justice functions better as defence
and isolation leads to the last fall

i still remember the nights
spent tracing her lips, looking
for meaning in their cracks.

(shrunken spines, curling
lips and cosmic eyes.)

she'd kiss away my fears,
paint them black and blue,
distorting memories until
they became meaningless
lies dripping so easily off
her tongue that i'd soon begin
to mistake them for truths

(shrunken spines, curling
lips and cosmic eyes.)

Untouchable, she was the
kind of beauty to keep you
transfixed, swirling skies,
killing time, the crescendo
building up in your head
until everything just
suddenly
               goes
                       blank.

she was shrunken spines,
curling lips and cosmic eyes

i loved her, i hated her,
i still wish i could see her
without the memories
lying breathless,
clouding my gaze.

Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous  eyes on the skull of  historical future
on my pykitonic   torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical  balance for wondrous poetry.

Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense  dwarfism  of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,

From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.

A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of  Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****,
bordering on the  teutonic greatness of  ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples  in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite  of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human  neurosis an equation of perfect art.

You can not **** the hummingbird
And think that there
Will be no repercussions

You can not silence
His lips
With the barrel of a gun

You can not bury his memory
By stonewalling and
Distorting the evidences

You can not erase his ideals
By destroying his name…..

Extinguish not his memory
By firing the shots,
It is an act that only
Fans the aching flame

You think he is forgotten
But he lives………
Healthy in the hearts of millions
You thought are but a few

Someday we will sing his song of love
Someday he will rise again, defiant!
Daring to fly, as high
As the burning sun
And you can not stop him
Or **** him once again

For the hummingbird shall endure
The compassion of men shall sustain him
And he will conquer this death
That you have inflicted upon him

So you can **** the man and his body
You can blow his face all away
You can trample him with your
Angry tyranny
But you can never, never
**** his soul!

The hummingbird defies you
The hummingbird lives on and on and on………