"originator" poems
Check it I be the mic originator greater than the next hater
So my nines will degrade ya send ya back to ya maker undertaker
Shake ya
With my earthquake flows formin' portals bigger than the black hole leave ya third eye swole
My thoughts travelin' faster than the speed of light say goodnight from the snake bite
A rhyming python wears cables and nylon runnin' bars harder than marathon true champion none could knock a don
Birthed by the sun raised by moon Sonic booms soundwaves from heart rates feelin' doom and soon
To be resting in the womb
The belly of the earth retaining my turf know my worth make words hurts
So suckas better tuck in ya skirts
I'm catching mirth
Along with death til my last breath cookin' up rhymes from the *** of my mind n continue to shine
Its asinine to flex ya mind if you cross the gun line don't be a victim of a graphic design
(Ya tapped out)
Scatzzz all over the kitty katz with my woody bat making them brains cracks
Cells it ain't hard to tell ****** fear me cuz I be the archangel Michael
fallin' deep into the depths of my hell o well
If you try to inhale my lyrical tales this ship is set to sail
On ya brainwaves these days fools rappin' for cheap pay lookin' all gay **** that I rather use the AK
Sittin' by the window seal signing the release will my soul'll still
Be reaching regardless the hardest artist
Usually ends up a carcass manifest the darkest
Rhymes but shine light at the same time crime at an all time
High once I blaze my thoughts cells fought & caught
By the smokin' arrows of a ghostly pharoah
Thats just my ancestors though lettin' me know it's time to show and go blow for blow toe to toe
Hands or the chrome pistol
The ghetto Aristotle makin' bodies mold from the enemies that caught a cold
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
aesthetic is etiquette
is:
what is & isn't
either:
yet is both: in that they
are the same:
disparaging meanings...
nouns: the source
of ultimate meaning,
crux words...
and the source of
the thesaurus...
i wasn't looking
for a mathematical
conflation of grammar
either...
but...
aesthetic ≠ etiquette...
but...
it does! to keep up
with the formality
of norm, of power,
then
(the)
aesthetic = (the) etiquette,
but there is no "the"
to begin with...
yet...
if the aesthetic ≠ the etiquette...
why, either?!
dumb questions usually
prescribe
a continued willing
to perpetuate:
unquestioned...
hence the dumb questions...
my dumb question
lacks any elaborate ploy
to topple the status quo
for the sole reason that...
my alternative
matches
no genius of the originator
basis...
wordings are not
simply chanced to
be worth debating
a miscarriage
of implementing
the averted coin-flip...
(funny, how the articles
prop up,
miraculously)...
etiquette?
a macabre variety
of aesthetic...
nothing more...
but... etiquette is
still subordinate of
aesthetic...
isn't it?
hardly:
etiquette is still
subordinate off
aesthetic...
is it?!
a month spent
in a monastery of a novel...
cradle these words
unto a course
of nullification...
if i'd utter them in
a clutter of sparrows:
i'd be a equivalent to a mute
stone...
if i'd utter them in
a lion's harem:
i'd be a cat's meow (if not less)...
if i'd utter them in
the crow's shamanism
of all shadows...
i'd still be less
the croaking hark
of a voice that
might dictate: obey...
so...
so...
ah...
was kommen:
was ist...
und alles was:
ich, ich sterben...
ich war geboren?
ich war
nie sein: geboren....
ich war sein: sterben!
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 8:33 PM UTC
i.
O' mine asawa, mine novel put away for millennia,
Brute man hast hidden thee from view, thou hast been burdened by men's crucifying, thy fear's art of lonesomeness; as many hast left thee, As I've known thine tears. I've seen and watched thy fear's, over the year's thine heart was bleeding.
ii.
Though whilst thou was leaking from thine wound's, I was keeping track on high, from the moon, and universal sky, from the nebula they calleth God's eye; I made plan's to cometh near. Thither below where I hadst none purpose, other than thee; I asked ourn maker to pusheth me into the sea of the great Pacific ocean, I hadst come with mine love, and incorporeal potion's.
iii.
Afore thine nativity, I hadst known thee a whilst, though as an angel thy falling to the atmosphere madeth thee forget thy memory; and divine self. Though I remembered thou, as thy soulmate from ages passed: I waited, with the great originator, I hadst beseeched him to seeing thee again; mine beloved, mine consort of other realm related. As Elohim kneweth thou was mine Filipino rose, mine all, and best friend: he granted me back heaven, as I landed into thy hand's.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley-Filipino rose dedicated
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
YADA TASHY ( "Originator Stone" )
Outside the first snow falls.
Her wounds are photographed.
Spoken of.
Described in detail.
Technical.
The overhead microphone
takes it all in.
Being dead she is
more naked
than she ever was.
Stripped of her
humanity.
She had ceased to be
who she used to be.
She is now
merely a cadaver.
The autopsy can not tell
her name.
She is Kuzuku.
Her mother called her
KuKu.
She had been born
with a caul.
KuKu was pregnant.
She was going to call
the child if it was a girl
. . .Yuki.
She couldn't conceive what
she would call it if a boy?
It was always going to be
a girl.
She liked candyfloss
and her hair up.
Now her hair is down.
It touches her shoulders.
As if her hair were
still alive.
The autopsy
wound by wound
tells of the hell
of her dying.
The voice is
deadpan.
Mechanical.
The coroner
breaks for coffee.
Bitter. Black.
"Ya da!"
as the Turks say.
"...with nothing..."
***
Kuzuku was named after the flowering plant/rampant **** Her mother always drank a tea made from it. Only her mother called her her pet name; "Kuku!" Her blacker than black hair always seemed like a living entity in itself as it danced upon her shoulders or splashed over her clavicles. She always wore off the shoulder dresses or tops even in winter cold. I once told her she had the cutest clavicles( "rekishi no naka de kawaī sakotsu" )in history which....always made her laugh. I told her she had well tempered clavicles and she laughed even more when the pun was explained to her. She had been born with a caul...a red caul. She it was who told me the Turkish tale or the Yada Daşı and of the Yadachy.
She had just met the man who would eventually stab her to death and she was greatly in love with him and his culture.
All these little scraps of humanity could not be disclosed by the autopsy which could never tell of how beautiful she was and what a joy she was to be around.
Her death was a horror tale told by a friend of a friend of a friend and hard to comprehend or believe.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC
Irrelevant and inexperienced tongues speak
of things that are merely meek
borrowed thoughts, charred and dark
none got the zeal or spark
of the original mark
behold the originator of thought
Fierce and finesse
opulent and neoteric
complex yet tangible
veridical and factual
juxtaposing tradition and aesthetics
original stands out better
Pursue your thoughts
deliberately choose
perdurable possibilities
disparate spheres of same thought
well deserved appreciation
eponymous hero, you will be !!
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC
Pass on
Select the time and contemplate the goals
My golden Goddess, my Queen
The sanctimonious moments of life
Those you live for
An intrinsic grove confiding in the glistening sun
Lovers strolling down the dirt paths **** without shame
It is natural here; joy and laughter fill the air
Our brains elevated with naivety and innocence
Ambient sounds and kind voices are all we hear
Select the hymn from the long, long ago
The moment is here
“Be free” they chant
Under the sun
In the shade of a cryptic tree
Ship out here again to the grove
Roam through the cool pastures
Join us
As we dance to the overture
Dark eyed underlings
Hissing impulsively
Madhouse notions enter the man’s cranium
We are gathered at this junction for this vigorous cross breeding
Of the immense love and the prolific lust we have for life
And extend an olive branch to those with a dim acceptance of death
Bent on devouring mortality
Floundering to pump out a miracle
On a spree of existence
Cruising behind tinted intentions
Melodies crumble sheepishly
Ah, divine originator of life
Allow us immortality
To escape our awful fates
And plan a mutiny against Charon
We beg for silk and satin intimacy
Evil wicked sorcerers of the soul are refused iconic eternal life
Gentle menders of the spirit may bask in the glorious groves of timelessness
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Together they stand
The Seven Sisters of India
Untouched, unexplored, isolated
The seven states of north east India
Assam, the gateway to this heavenly abode
Is the provider of tea leaves all through the world
Arunachal Pradesh, the Land of the rising sun
Attracts tourist from all over the world
Manipur, oval-shaped valley of blue mountains
Is the originator of Polo games
Meghalya, naturally the abode of clouds
Gives shelter to flora, fauna in large bounds
Mizoram, the land of the highlander Mizo people
Has the rivers and most vari colored hilly terrain
Nagaland rich in flora, fauna and evergreen forests
Is home to Great Indian Horn-bill and Naga tribes
Tripura, a landlocked hilly state with Manu river
Has a rich cultural heritage of music, fine arts, dance
With Sikkim as their only brother, natural beauty and exotic places
The seven sisters are indeed a Paradise Unexplored
© Neeloo 'NeelPari'
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
*
You are the Poet,
Among the first five;
I do understand,
You are the
Poet of the Poet;
The best poet!
Neither “Homer”
Nor “Gibran”;
Neither “Neruda”;
Nor “Tagore”;
Like all other
Poet of the Poets;
You too scribbles nonsense,
Sometimes like the
other famous poets;
You yourself is the originator;
As well as the reader.
then you become
victorious; defeated…….
_______________________________________________________________________
You are the King
Among the first five
I do understand
You are the
King of the Kings;
The best King !
Neither “Charles II”
Nor “Henry V”;
Neither “Edward”;
Nor “Asoka”;
Like all other
King of Kings,
You yourself is the Creator;
as well as the destroyer;
You too declares world war
sometimes like the
other famous Kings!
Without warnings
You yourself is the creator;
As well as the destructor;
then you become
victorious;the defeated..
____________________________________________________________________________________
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
[email protected]
www.williamsji.com
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
Books I have come across,
Pages of old scribbles and thoughts
Old ones, both Legends and myths
I have seen heroes on the cross
Even events that are far gross!
But they seems to have lost their wits
.
Books of treasure I have found,
Where heroes and great ones won
Stories of time I have kept
Deeply rooted in my inquisitive chest
.
Books of fantasies I have explored,
The magical exuberance my bewildered
Mind unable to fathom
The fairy puzzles that old ones would not speak of!
.
Books, as they unfolds
From the stream of unseen
The scribbler and originator of mindset
Painter of destiny!
The author that lives by the Coast.
Balogun David (drunk poet)
© 2017
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 9:47 PM UTC
We are in trap comrade
We have made all those mistakes
and creating the difference among us
We didn't know that
here the originator made the dark lines among us
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
Eyes closed
Blinded by violent sun rays
The land seems foreign
But you own and nurture it
Now you walk its valleys and peaks
With your soul as your only guiding light
They think you can't see
But you've survived centuries
Inside the deep seas
You're an old soul
Perhaps odd too
But one thing for sure
You've had too much to see
Your eyes filled with desert sands
Mixed with water from the oasis
You gasp for air
For long you've had oxygen supplied to you
Food chewed for you and fed to you as pulp
Now you want to take control
And once again throne the chair
Fists clenched
As if you'd just woken up
From a terrible dream
The whole neighborhood awake
Because of your loud screams
How far did you sleepwalk
And strayed from your spiritual beam
You think they wanna open your fists
And read the secret seams
The exotic path on your palms
A sacred pact between yourself
And your originator
Now you choke
From all the fear you've generated
To your surprise
Everyone around you is smiling
And you immediately ask yourself
"Are these people happy or are they lying
Pretending to rejoice when they're only gathered here to watch me dying"
"Welcome to the puzzle game"
A voice inside you says
"The only baffling factor here
Is that you are the puzzle
And the puzzle is you
The world is but a mold
Complete and incomplete
With and of itself"
Just like a folding daisy
You slowly open up
And take it all in, the light, the madness
And slowly you regain your sight
You lift your arms and feel the wind
Brush against your broken wings
Gradually you learn to unclench your fists
For therein lies your secret code
The coordinates to your destination
The part of the world better known as home
Ironically, this is not the end
But the beginning to this beautiful game called life
Be it a map to a secret treasure
A key to a door to unsolved mysteries
Or a keyword that will capture
Someone's heart until time
Raptures love without all the miseries
Or simply a fortune cookie with a prank written inside
That code is yours
Etched upon your tiny hands
It is your responsibility to decrypt that message
And interpret it to fit your purpose
And your purpose is nothing more
Than what you make it.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
Why does come Monday first always in Week?
and Looking in East why, West cannot I seek?
Why from month January , year to begin?
Is January so great and December mean?
Why yellow looks so yellow and red is red?
Why chair is called a chair and bed is bed?
Why day is destined to never meet a night?
And there no darkness, where ever is light?
How cement keep together one brick to brick?
When Frozen, turn water ice, what is the trick?
Why the cow choice eating grass, leaf & fruit?
and juice for feral panther never substitute?
Why chilly taste hot so and apple taste sweet?
Why river's bank parallel & never they meet?
Why always two has to come after one?
No body to answer, no reason yet come.
Why eye for watching and mouth to speak?
And Mountain so high and valley so deep?
Why fire for burning and water to wet?
Why language ever need many alphabet?
Only thirty days in a month, when, why & how?
No answers to these questions, leave them you now.
And why the God created this multiple world,
Can not be explained ever, can not be solved.
God is the originator and this is the fact.
This world is how it is, you have to accept.
This is the Nature and this is reply.
Alfa is alfa , so pie is pie.
Ajay Amitabh Suman
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 7:34 AM UTC
Paint it, craft it
Invent it as if
Pretend the interior
Doesn't actually exist
Create a back drop
Of reason and rhyme
Initiate aesthetics
Present it sublime
Imagine a new world
Where circles entwine
Let it originate
From your own mind
...
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 7:09 AM UTC
The Tao that can be trodden is not the enduring and unchanging Tao.
The name that can be named is not the enduring and unchanging name.
(Conceived of as) having no name,
It is the Originator of heaven and earth; (conceived of as) having a Name,
It is the Mother of all things.
Always without desire we must be found,
If its deep mystery we would sound;
But if desire always within us be,
Its outer fringe is all that we shall see.
Under these two aspects, it is really the same;
But as development takes place, it receives the different names.
Together we call them the Mystery.
Where the Mystery is the deepest is the gate of all that
Is subtle and wonderful.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Smooth is the name I go by
F to e to the s o to the Y
Spelled it backwards now flip it forward
You get Yosef the most explosive
As a land mind in contact get off the bozack
Emcees these days so wack they lack
The skills to pay the bills and in the high hills
Got girls from USA Peru Somoa and Brazil
So haters chill as I lay a cut to another mill
Made while y'all played I keep it slayed
To a ****** ya never heard of a
Brother silky as me next to the BIG
Daddy Kane
Blessin' ya with lyrics cuz I be the originator
A Smooth operator
Grindin lyrics from the factories of my mind
That flash like a nine fast time no rewind
As I incline others decline smooth the line
Count ya steps carefully when you approach the bassline
The sweet taboo like Sade ya love me
Soldier of love all of the above
No haters allowed seek out in the crowd
Once the Microphone touches my hand watch em get loud
No party poopers quick to scoop ya
Out the scene where's my vanilla chocolate ice cream o yea
Slide ya like a fader the operator
The flavors looking good and there I stood
Between all the honies different tastes of the beauties
Shakin' bootys got the style so ya know they won't loose me
Lyrics soft as silk but cut like a ribbon
As make the mental incision
Shadow of a glare no truth or dare
Its big Yosef coming from the rear
The extraordinaire
My dear the one and only real playa
Others is custom so they downgrade ya
Classic as Sega clawed like Vega
Cuz I be a Smooth operator
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
i just lit up a matchstick,
like a rock striking the bed of still water,
creating ripples seemingly impossible to control.
the matchstick ignited the moment it made contact
with the red phosphorus on the box's side.
it burnt so bright, so sharp—
i watched flickers of it, the tiny fire—a world of its own.
the flame started blue at the centre,
turned white, orange, red, and a bright yellow.
was this the sunshine's glow?
or the fire that grew from it?
i watched the match start to shrivel up,
the tip that burnt the brightest went down the fastest.
it dropped on my skin,
left a tiny scar in its midst.
and then the stick caught fire—
slowly, gradually, it ate itself up.
the world swallowed itself whole—
the world that the matchstick had created on its own.
such innocence. i wonder if it had life—
oh, but it did have life.
born with it—well, made the way it is supposed to be:
burn, leave a light, which lasts longer.
the originator of the fire, further.
and it dies because of its own existence.
the box that it comes within
carries what brings it to its ending.
and all those, multiple—oh so many,
that come within a box like a well-settled family,
leave one by one, burning themselves apart.
i wonder if the ones remaining behind know their part?
isn't that the irony of human beings as well?
our own worlds, created by us alone—
swallowing us whole,
and often the ones to bring us to ruin: our own.
sometimes i wonder
if i were to kiss the flame,
pull it in my arms, hug it, and set myself on fire—
would our worlds collide?
would i break the loop of life?
would i find the warmth i require,
or would i too turn to ash,
like the matchstick as my friend?
what would it say—
the flame, as it embraces me in return?
would it be like the caress of a mother’s hand,
or the sizzling burn of my father’s?
would this comfort be my destruction?
i wonder if the matchstick ever regretted its purpose.
Jun 18, 2025
Jun 18, 2025 at 11:01 AM UTC
The heart comes first
above all else
beyond all else
together with all else
the heart must come first,
mustn't it?
the heart should come first,
shouldn't it?
if the heart is so important
why must there be need to affirm its importance?
the heart is not the originator of feelings,
the limbic system is
the heart is not the driver
but merely a reactive passenger
it is neither self, nor ego
the heart is just... the heart
could it be, perhaps
that it is where the soul is intimated?
where passion is derived and fueled
it drives one to dream
to hope, to fulfil, to conquer...
and to despair
maybe it is what makes us humans, human
without such
we are merely living and breathing,
as other animals do—and they too have hearts
but unlike ours
ours is mostly referred to as an unknowable construct
a purely man-made invention (like Valentine’s Day)
a metaphysical manifestation of our existential insecurity
or maybe just a tired lover’s cliche?
if the heart comes first
then what’s next?
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
momma mia man date
comb the second Sunday during month of May
can be traced back to ancient Greeks and Romans
festivals held
to honor mother goddesses Rhea and Cybele
setting precedent for Mother's Day
where early Christians fancied festival
known as “Mothering Sunday.”
Fast forward to the early
twentieth century 1908 when
Ann Maria Reeves Jarvis (a social activist then,
and community organizer
during American Civil War) era to quieten
grief fraught entrapment also cited
as informally memorializing her mother,
who begot said noble men
touring daughter
paying homage to woebegone
lachrymose role with accolades
to endure tragedy and loss put upon
child bearing women,
this event held (rain or sun)
at St Andrew's Methodist Church
in Grafton, West Virginia, which did quicken
in subsequent decades to formal fete,
where poets (like me) did open
the special occasion with ranked midshipmen
commercialization cropped as ken
be expected by the early 1920's imbolden
greeting card companies such as Hallmark gen
er rated a market (money making of course) even
though Jarvis believed companies sought profit
NOT prophet, thus misinterpreting
and exploiting idea of Mother's Day and met
aforementioned founder, who tried to jet
tis sin the ****** appetite of the ole mighty dollar,
but her lofty ambition did get
thwarted by mass marketing
the quaint idea,
plus she feared going in debt
and though the industry
(initially proposed entailed low key
acknowledgement, the originator
(Ann Marie Jarvis) still esteemed re
formed unsanitary living conditions with zee
less ness and aplomb
set a course where greater longevity doth hum
all because, she sought to regale "mum."
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 11:31 AM UTC
Yeah in Texas we love to swang
Switch through the lanes
While smokin' on Mary jane
It don't matter what ya claim
We spit flames sittin' on 84
Twistin' round and round
And you can hear the bassing sounds
Thumpin' keep the streets jumpin'
Much love to the originator
I'm talkin' the ***** creator
Earl Davis a legend so don't be second guessin'
Or you'll be gettin' a blessin'
Surprise from my Smith n Wesson
Sittin on Vogues 15s or 14s
Gold over chrome in chrono order
My appeal is so real
So ya know all haters feel
Jealousy and envy but it don't bend me
I just chill and let the wind breeze take me
Into another zone I'm game smooth *** baritone
Gets me a bunch girls to bone
Intellects sang
rollin'hard chirpin' on them thangs
Bound to be a sunny day
In that sunshine state
Texas breakin' crates cuz our music rake
From the streets to the jail cells
Makin' revenue with the crew
Black & Hebrew
No time for evil I moved pass that level
These devils wanna see me fall
But will Still continue to ball
Til I'm over the top chillin' in a million dollar loft
Breakin' off proper treat my guns
Like a visa
I'll never leave my chopper at home
Pushin' more domes than the astros
Wrapped around ya mind like a lasso
Live everyday Like my last though
Just a hustler spittin over instrumentals
Rhymes verbal where's the punisher?
Foes soon to be a victims
From tyna still thangs
Still servin' up on them thangs
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 5:30 AM UTC
we do not believe the confessions
before our faces,
the admittance of the travesties.
we choose to see things how
it is constructed to be seen.
there is always the choice,
I think its the missing rituals
that we forgot. spell casted,
fog rot. rolling in on all the mediums
that come from system, all of them.
so we're a little bit bombarded.
the muse of the creators, the power,
the originator, She, is to be trusted.
misguided centuries
have turned the heads disgusted
at the miracles of their times,
witnessing the feminine spirit of the spine
birth a child, or raise a tribe.
She and her daughters are the ones
who know alone,
that moment, that human form
pushes out of your core,
emerges from the dark,
the songs of spirit circling the babe,
caressing the body for the trek.
alone, that moment. you have no one.
there is no option, it is you and God
gracing the entrance of new life.
portals being used so frequently
we call it normal…
we cut wombs, screaming
mama cannot open, (as her entire system shuts down from stress)
woman robbed of her moment alone,
her moment to know,
to remember her home,
the submitting to faith alone
that she is alive!
(pitocin has the exact same effect,)
robbed of birth, the birthing mother
weeps for the gut wrenching, stomach hurdling
pain to cease, the pain of creation.
the necessary absorption for mother
to mother, to heal her children, her nation.
in that moment alone she learns who she is …
with that moment she becomes mother,
her ritual as a creator.
woman finds her way there regardless,
though these moments are the ones
God created to witness self,
to hear the music of movement,
to live in the creative destruction,
as one.
some will tell the story as there are many sides
there is only one.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC