"progressing" poems
prom itself is just an overglorified dance
the after party is where the real fun begins
sitting at the kitchen table of my best friend's house
sipping strawberry margaritas her mom made
then progressing to shots of tequila
and playing shots uno, steadily getting more and more dizzy
until i'm trying to twerk on a wall
and calling my friends to tell them i love them
pretending to be a koala on an armrest
updating my snapchat story so people at other gatherings can be jealous
forgetting how to pull my pants back up in the bathroom
talking to my ex boyfriend for an hour on the phone, telling him
exactly why i didn't dance with him at prom
and that i fingered myself for a boy
and i wanted to tell him and everyone, for that matter, about her
but i didn't because rejection and rumors are my worst enemies
he stays quiet and the only sound left is
my frantic whispering that i hope i stay this happy in the morning
because sober me lays in the deep end of the spectrum of sadness
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
Lead us, Evolution, lead us
Up the future's endless stair;
Chop us, change us, **** us, **** us.
For stagnation is despair:
Groping, guessing, yet progressing,
Lead us nobody knows where.
Wrong or justice, joy or sorrow,
In the present what are they
while there's always jam-tomorrow,
While we tread the onward way?
Never knowing where we're going,
We can never go astray.
To whatever variation
Our posterity may turn
Hairy, squashy, or crustacean,
Bulbous-eyed or square of stern,
Tusked or toothless, mild or ruthless,
Towards that unknown god we yearn.
Ask not if it's god or devil,
Brethren, lest your words imply
Static norms of good and evil
(As in Plato) throned on high;
Such scholastic, inelastic,
Abstract yardsticks we deny.
Far too long have sages vainly
Glossed great Nature's simple text;
He who runs can read it plainly,
'Goodness = what comes next.'
By evolving, Life is solving
All the questions we perplexed.
Oh then! Value means survival-
Value. If our progeny
Spreads and spawns and licks each rival,
That will prove its deity
(Far from pleasant, by our present,
Standards, though it may well be).
10.2k
Loyalty is where the heart is
in eternal lengths and depths.
Bound in love, and sealed in courage
by supernal covenants.
Family is the beginning!
First in order from our birth
to whom we give, without an ending,
adorations of our worth.
Our friends in loyalty will follow
after family bonds are made.
And let a friend whose hope is hollow
be lifted by our hasteful aid.
And then, progressing, find a mate
with whom you'll form a family.
Let loyalty with them be great
in time and all eternity.
O man, O man, remember Him!
The one from whom all blessings flow!
Take time to learn of Elohim,
That God that sent you here to grow!
Before your loyalties are given
to those we meet in life on earth,
Put, first, your loyalty in Heaven
and He who gave you timeless worth!
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
I always thought feminism was just for women. That feminism was a bra burning, man hating, joke.
Then I had Mr. Thompson for AP US History. We were talking about the 1960’s and all the protests that were happening when we got to feminism and I let out an audible groan.
Mr. Thompson got quiet, and approached my desk.
“So you think feminism is a joke? Folks this is the problem we have with the word feminism. Because I bet you all think of feminism as a bunch of hippie women who don’t shave burning their bras? Well guess what that never happened. Feminism isn’t about putting women above anybody else. It’s about putting them on equal ground with men. It’s equality. And you know what? I’m a man and a feminist. You can be both!”
Mr. Thompson taught me two things that day that have affected me to this day. 1. That I was an ignorant ***** And 2. Teaching can change not only a life but the course history as well. So now I’m a teacher, and a feminist. I see these same boys who were just like me who believe in equality but don’t know what feminism means. So I try my best when I talk about feminism in my history class to teach them better. And you might ask why does the label matter? When you misunderstand or degrade feminism you make it impossible for actual feminists to affect any actual change. I get laughed at when I tell people I’m a feminist. I get it from other men, from faculty, even from women.
These people are not misogynists, but they aren’t doing much to help the cause either.
I try and teach what feminism is about but every year I’m noticing people think this is an outdated concept. If you think that women’s rights will keep progressing as a natural function of time you are wrong. I teach history and time and time again societies that have been progressive, changed and people became oppressed. We still have a long way to go but if we don’t take feminism seriously we can lose what’s been achieved.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
It may start with not wanting to wake,
Soon progressing to not doing homework.
Grades dropping,
Self esteem toppling.
You feel dumb, and then you feel numb.
You think "Is any of this even worth it?"
You're filled with doubt as you begin to pout,
But then you remember the small things.
When your favorite band comes on the radio,
When you finally draw that second eye correctly,
The sound of applause at the end of a play.
Even as simple as that new episode of a show you watch.
And then you ask once again: "Is any of this even worth it?"
And it truly is.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
forward forward forward
going somewhere moving forward
whether progressing or regressing
growing or unlearning
coming or going
living, dying
everyone believes they are moving towards something
and as everything happens all at once
each perceptive reality is entirely different than any other
and each consciousness travels, and does, and is.
each consciousness believes it has a purpose or a path.
the purpose is not to see into nor plan the future.
from the civilian to the hero tv shows and movies
have consistently glorified the ability to see visions of the future
generally this is followed by someone trying to prevent
the happenings in said vision from becoming reality
and distinctly failing because they "saw into" the future
that their own energy influenced
but the true super power is to be able to look into the past.
to prevent the omitting of details and data
to avoid a rewrite of our conscious interaction with this planet
not to white out the chapters that bear the truth in the textbooks
to recall history so it does not repeat itself
my question is then
do people disguise the wrongdoings of those hidden by the passing of time?
because they are ashamed of the mistakes of their ancestors pasts?
because they are ashamed of their participation in past consciousness's?
because they are ashamed of the atrocities humans have inflicted upon each other and themselves as well as their home planet since the beginning of recorded time here?
or do those who have the power to omit and hide history
purposely rewrite it?
do they mask the pains of the past so the rest of us will forget?
so that even they can forget?
so their next consciousness can unknowingly, while predestined,
have hand in crimes against the world all the same as committed in the lost past?
how many times has someone written these words
or a similar combination
only to delete the post?
burn the pages?
backspace the message?
stop themselves from speaking them aloud?
cover the symbols?
pass out of conscious living mid sentence?
lose them to a past lifetime?
how many times has this cycled through the same way?
how many times have I been me?
how many times have you been me?
how many times have I been anyone?
how many times have I been?
is there a rhythm or is it all as scattered and random
as the thoughts that bring you
to this kind of an understanding of the habit of misunderstanding?
the kind of thoughts that bring you back to the birds nest because you were too early for even the worm?
they will all catch up eventually
after all they all think theyre moving forward
and they don't even know where they've been.
they don't even know that they've been.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
Almost happy now, he looked at his estate.
An exile making watches glanced up as he passed,
And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast
A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell
Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well.
The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.
Far off in Paris, where his enemies
Whispered that he was wicked, in an upright chair
A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write
"Nothing is better than life." But was it? Yes, the fight
Against the false and the unfair
Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilise.
Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all,
He'd had the other children in a holy war
Against the infamous grown-ups, and, like a child, been sly
And humble, when there was occasion for
The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie,
But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.
And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win:
Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest
Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done,
And only himself to count upon.
Dear Diderot was dull but did his best;
Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in.
So, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,
Earthquakes and executions. Soon he would be dead,
And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses
Itching to boil their children. Only his verses
Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead
The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.
2.6k
Content, clarity, no calling home
Surrounded snugly in sunshine’s roam
What naturally burns is saving
Cleansing the soul in its raving
Yet somber shadows induce chills of night
And the sun regresses in imperative flight
The moon brings forth its calming glow
So soon It’s realized she’s all alone
The gnawing proceeds from deep in her mind
Progressing forward without a bind.
Dropping, drifting, dying leaves
Just like their path her thoughts shall weave
To and fro between a mood
Sweet and caring turned suddenly rude
Cold winds lead to a chilling sight
Everything’s changed but It says all is right
Soon the world blends together as one
No longer touched by the warmth of the sun
Temperatures drop and so does her head
Leaden with sorrow as she makes for her bed.
Empty, endlessly enduring days
Isolation extends but it’s deemed okay
Dreams die, concealed by snow
She wants to leave but cannot go
Icy winds blowing cold as her heart
Frozen solid and wishing to part
Getting used to the pain
With no hope to gain
Too weak to worry with no emotions felt
She’s forced to awaken as the world starts to melt.
Free and flowering fields now bring
Hope to the girl who could not sing
Coming from the showering rain
The healing waters break through the pain
Finally she’s found the truest way
To stop and force her problems away
Soon enough she’s rediscovered her smile
And returns to the friends she hasn’t seen in a while
Oh but It’s smart, much smarter than we
So smart that nobody could ever have seen
Greatly, gladly going home
Swimming deep in water’s foam
A calm, warm night has come to cease
Their world is frantic while hers sees peace
Searching hard for a missing girl
Reaching the river, their stomachs curl
Soaking, dripping, they find what’s wrong
Realizing now how long she’s been gone
Eroding sadness, consumed by pain
Now they can feel what she did every day.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
remedies is not only for something we can't pass
remedies is for everything that has broken
or just to re-new something
-
she learns something from her life, everyday
but she never had a chance to write those down
it's not a scam when she said her favorite things to do are reading & writing or writing & reading
reading a poem or her self-diary
writing a poem or a self-diary
she doesn't know if is a gifts
or just a hobby
because everytime she finished wrote all her poems, she re-read it, and she thought all eyes those read her words can write it too (with their own version(s))
in this, not-so, new day(s)
herself will embarks to write all the tales where she's involved in
as long as she living her life
this era is the lowest point in her life
she doesn't know if it actually is, or it's just she made it all low
she can't even say a word to herself
she can't even write what's in her head
she can't even tell anyone when she really needs a person to talk
all are just mixed up in her little head
she doesn't know if it is something like "manifesting" or what
all she knows that she can't figure it out yet
is it something related to science? like human mind?
is it something related to religions? like human relations with The Creator?
but one from many answers for the solutions (based on her own researches) is self-improvement
she is pretty sure that is something wrong inside herself
something to be fixed
something that needs remedy
but her body & mind are not so sure what is that (or what are those)
her body & mind are still figuring out
it's not finished yet
it is still figuring how it needs to be stopped
it is still progressing
'it' is this story, her story, my story
..
Jan 9, 2023
Jan 9, 2023 at 7:20 AM UTC
~for she who knows whom I mean~
do not beg to differ
just do
she is progressing true,
but the process is foretold
three generations of tracks
the line is map drawn
she and the generations before
and the generations to follow are
a work in process
the process is forever foretold
the genes are in control***
do you ken the difference?
do you ken the compliment?
and the complement...clear
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
Boring to me
listening to those
them disconnected Rondos-
no idea where the
progressions are-
yet, they still anticipate
something!
With every life situation;
there should be
a limited amount
of dominants-
then when using
secondary dominants
one can make progressions.
The music can only
be plucked
like a harp
in several directions,
making music
without the control
of one chord.
One chord has
trouble progressing
without the secondary dominants.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
I read my body like a road map
My ******* become mountains
My hips are flowing bodies of water
Here's to the not-so-lean lines
That tell me where the highways are
The railroad is the predominant form of transportation
In the quaint little town I depict on my skin
Train tracks cover inch by inch of me
From wrist to chest to thigh
Smothered in scars
That tell you where I've been
And where I hope to move away from.
Every good map has a starting point
For me, that was ****** abuse
Was verbal aggression
Was gas lighting
Then the extra distance in the middle
Was suicidal thoughts
Was bulimia
Was starting therapy
Was never being good enough for anyone
I'm not quite to where I want to be yet
But I'm progressing to the city of
I am good enough for me
Now I worship these train tracks
No more fresh blood
But I can kiss the scars
I find myself in love with my existence
Rather than ashamed of my past
I will handle my map like ancient scrolls
Like a golden altar
Not settling for any silly lover
Who does not exalt this sacred land, this body
And to love where I am going,
You must honor each and every place
I have been.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 11:49 PM UTC
dragged out of bed by the beating of my blood through my eardrums,
then pushed back into the deep corner of my mind by the drumming in my head,
this idea's progressing to a level higher than the mountaintop it was conceived on.
as it draws itself out in the stars; by my fingertips pointed heavenward,
the picture completes itself with the slightest adjustments of my mind,
and produces somewhat of an opus to be driven and dragged out upon.
killed in its final instances, it's death brings renewed life;
rebirth only gets to those who really ever let it mean something important,
and as we give purpose to our purposeless lives, i see what you're awakening to as a con;
a deception not of the hands that were supposed to belong to somebody else, but of my own.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 5:06 AM UTC
Technology marches forward,
Never stopping,
Technology marches forward,
Always progressing.
It permeates our homes,
It resides in our pockets,
The big company's own Sherlock Holmes,
Seeing deep within our lockets.
It gets us where,
We want to go,
Through the air,
Or through the traffic flow.
It runs our lives,
Leading us along,
Like bees in hives,
We follow it's rhythmic song.
Technology marches forward,
Not caring for its creators,
Technology marches forward,
As humanities technological dictators.
Nov 4, 2019
Nov 4, 2019 at 2:08 PM UTC
The Miss-Director was beaming with pride
as he came to escort me inside.
"Come along, these are perilous times,
there is much ugly truth we must hide."
"Herr Goebbels was our school's inspiration.
Joe McCarthy taught here till he died.
Charlie Rangel is among our directors.
Our Grads over nations preside."
"We recruit each years class from young children
who display a disdain for the truth."
"We start with a class on tall stories,
progressing to fibs and untruths."
"By the time they are teens they are ready
to leave little white lies behind."
"They engage in deceit and deception.
These skills help them rob people blind."
"With our Grad course in prevarication
They misdirect and deflect with the great."
"Obama was born in Hawaii,
his foes say he was birthed out of state."
"When Bill Clinton was caught in that perjury
I nearly went out of my mind."
"If only he'd paid more attention in Class
and less to some coed's behind."
We had come to a massive rotunda
The Pantheon of all untruth.
Holograms of Stalin and Churchill
told whoppers in an endless loop.
There were quotes from
the World's Great Religions
inscribed on the sides of the wall.
A Left wing devoted to Lenin.
A right wing like a Munich beer hall.
" The sheeple must never be told
that a place like this even exists."
" You can count on me not to inform them."
I said, without moving my lips.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 8:57 AM UTC
A seed is planted,
Leaves grow,
Flowers bloom,
Fruits ripen,
The bark toughens,
The stem branches out...
Seasons change,
Leaves wither,
Flowers wilt,
The fallen fruits rot,
The bark wrinkles,
The branches grow higher...
The eternal onset of time,
As the sand escapes the funnel of the hourglass.
Invert and repeat for every empty bulb.
A life, progressing from birth,
Ending at decay.
Time, she plays her tune-
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-...
Like a metronome set to 60 BPM;
Never stopping, ever stomping on,
Oscillating to the mechanical rhythm of Time's pendulum,
Journeying to a finite end on a path set up to infinity.
***Time, she is proof, that we are alive--
Proof that decay hunts down the living...***
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
What are we but a melodramatic love song.
Lust into love,
One night stands turned into a forever dance, Moving to our rhythm,
Willingly settling into second,
Just to keep some since of piece of him,
Finding peace in him,
Dangling hope of just being present,
I just want to live in his positions,
And die dreaming of laying in his arms,
Holding on to bodies that aren't belonging to me,
As if to waive promiscuity,
To be proud, Oh to be proud,
Feeling nothing more than misjudged,
But judged rightfully so,
I just wanted to love him,
Lived in such a foolish state,
Breaking down complexities,
As if love could be so simple as one sided,
As if i had a choice,
Knowing we had a choice,
Admitting in my moment,
Clinging to what would hold me the longest, Running from his wrath into one of my own,
Stuck.
In the eye of the storm,
Not progressing, and content.
Content, but lonely Oh so lonely
To have him, but not to be his, to be his but have no claim to his heart.
No, not confused,
Just wishing that the truth could be written more beautifully.
Looking to the future for answers in the now, Should we stay Or move on,
Trying to go full circle,
Lost in a triangle Surrounded by sharp edges, Looking for a way out
But I choose to stay I surrender,
No longer willing to fight the truth.
I just wanted to love you With nothing in return, Stuck In uncompromising situations, but I stay, still. Hoping happiness will find me here.
Stuck.
She loves him, I love him, he loves her,
And yet I find myself just existing
Trying to find my place but theres no place for me here.
Drifting.
Awaiting the day ill no longer need him as a crutch, Cause I'm broken, Oh to be broken
Gave myself wholeheartedly Only to end up brokenhearted,
***** of any chance of forever,
Daydreaming of broken possibilities,
Looking into mirrors, Staring at ruins Figments of who I once was but ruined,
So I stay.
Still. Waiting for happiness to find me here.
-13'
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
#15 | 31 Poems for August
I’m slowly progressing but progressing nonetheless.
The worst thing I could do is give up on myself.
The worst thing I did this week was give up on myself.
Sometimes dreams delayed feel like dreams denied.
If you asked how I’m holding up and I responded by saying “I’m okay” then chances are I probably just lied.
Everyone’s caught up in their own world, if you don’t see me tomorrow then know that I tried.
I’m sorry I don’t want to bother or burden anyone with my problems.
I know you’ve never seen me cry but I can no longer hide all that I’m feeling inside.
Some people suffer in silence because of self-importance and a little bit of pride.
But that’s not me, I put my heart on paper and I let it all bleed.
But lately I’ve come to realise that not everyone likes to read.
So I ask myself, who am I writing all these resplendent poems to?
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
she whispers poetic metaphors
comprised of beautiful words
into thirsty ears
and watches as hungry eyes
become enveloped with stars
as they imagine the beauty
of her love
she tells them
¨he is the earth
and i am his moon
orbiting around him¨
orbiting for him
but
you see
an orbital´s path
is not paved by love
for she often asks herself
if she was really in love at all
or was it simply
his proximity
which so forcefully
pulled her in
for closeness
is what tore the moon
from her own established path
amongst the stars
when she encountered
the inescapable gravity
of another celestial body
the moon
diminutive and frail
in comparison
had no choice
but to succumb to the earth´s captivation
and redirect her path
to assume a new orbit
around a new focus
instead of progressing forward
she now knows nothing
but the same hideous loop
and like a scratched record
it repeats itself
over
and over
and over
and over
again
and every taste of freedom
simply brings her careening even quicker
around the next corner
until she becomes
all too familiar
with the same series of events
so she convinces herself
she's fallen in love
then that she's fallen
back out of it again
except
she hasn't really fallen anywhere
her mind simply adapts
a new narration
for the same spiral storyline
she never really loved him
for while they were close
momentum prevented their hearts
from ever truly touching
(for if the moon and the earth
drifted too close
they would collide)
and she will never know
now that she has become entranced
by a new planetary orbit
and as she tells the story
of how the moon
fell for the earth
the paradox of orbitals
was the perfect disguise
for her sinister love
x.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC
This was inspired by dents on the pillars
Outside the porch before it began to rain
And their smoothness and dips and mountainous valleys
And inevitable destinations and their journeys
And feeling the rain before it fell, without touch,
And today will never be another tomorrow
And fleeting, transitory roughness.
This was inspired by dents on the pillars
As the foundation sank into shifting earth,
And its progressing non-smoothness
Laced cracks through the dents,
And I rumple my fingers into each notch
And feeling without touch, too,
And I remember slipping on an unsecured brick
And slamming my head against the pillar
And roughness and pain and inevitable destinations
Like hospital beds for the busted heads
And hallways for the churning stomachs.
The dents are molding from the rain
And yellowing with the oil from my fingertips
And I haven’t moved my hand in five years,
And the valleys are so deep now that I see flames dancing in the depths
But is the world so complex as that
Or is it simply same outcomes and same purposes
In an infinite score of time passing
And seven billion dents across an ornate pillar
That stands with so much pride
But feels hollow to me, is hollow.
I wish to feel each indentation
When feeling without touch won’t suffice,
But I haven’t moved my hand in 500 years
And this poem is about dents,
But it was only inspired by the honesty of them
Because it’s really about roughness and valleys
And oily finger swirls and inevitability and unsecured sameness
And the pillars keep sinking into themselves
And the dents are folding into the cracks
And I can no longer touch them with feeling.
There are smudges on your cheeks from my finger touches
And dents on your heartbeat from trying to keep mine in time to yours
And mountains in your mind that I fell for in the first place
And everything is transitory
And this poem is about the days you sought the pillars in my skull
And the night they began to sink into themselves
So that neither of us can reach them now.
There are dents on the pillars,
And it has begun to rain,
And you’ve curled miles into the folds of transitory time-passing
As if we were inspired by the dents, too.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 2:30 AM UTC
Amaze me,
Or maybe just phase me
Blast me in a hazey maze
With your hasty ways
And your phazers
Cutting me like razors
Erase her,
Till the time it pays - off.
And help yourself
To get so well
Getting out of
Your personal hell.
I'm progressing,
Can't you tell?
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
As the world defends itself from the anxiety of death,
a wind-caressed woman waits by the water,
and signals for silence, unceremoniously.
Waiting for the blood-banks to breed ideals --
which will, inevitably, be exported --
that will turn Natives into faceless, finger-painted
neo-orphans of the broken nuclear home;
old souls, convinced to be the youth in revolt,
and to be the scrambled egg individuals of a melting *** that disguises uniform for diversity.
Her lavender dress dribbles the spiraling air, as the copper dust swims by her ankles, knees, and thighs.
I do not remember when she told me that everything we do and say is a defense-mechanism,
distracting us from the fact that one day we will die and be as imaginative as the roles we give ourselves,
as the people we think blend into us,
and as the gods we use as an alternative to a morphine drip.
I stood by the bad river, knowing that all of my attempts at being more than what I was,
was my grasp at an out-of-reach eternity,
and a dream of a humanity that could be affected by one person.
I do not remember when she told me,
"All of our attempts at progressing,
is our way with dealing that we will someday die
and may not have been successful at living forever."
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
If you want flowery poetry
Hit pause, backspace delete.
I write on a lot of subjects;
Only a few could be called sweet.
I’m not into swirling windstorms
Or describing billowy clouds.
Not into extolling autumn leaves
Or conifers standing proud.
I try to select the human things
Whether good or even bad.
Sometimes I wrestle with
Life twists that make us sad.
I try to speak for everyman
And that includes the women.
I try to reflect life circumstances
And the results the travel with them.
So, crooning polysyllabically
Is seldom my favorite tune,
Nor is waxing limerickally
About June, and spoon and moon.
Instead I’ll probably take to task
Those who live in sappy hope
A prince shows up in their life
A proper romantic dope.
I write the rhymes about crooks
That steal from your children
And the supposed leaders
That ****** and abuse women.
I write about parents who
Ignore what their children need
And instead find their joy
On selfishness and greed.
After so many millennia
We really need to stop
Waiting for someone else to come
And be the moral traffic cop.
It is us who need to change
And teach our children accordingly
Because the way we are fixing things
Humanity is progressing dismally.
So keep your butterfly couplets
And views of rain on hedges.
We are falling apart as humans
And it’s visible on the edges.
It will only take a few crazies
With power enough to wield
And this planet, and us of course,
Will no longer have a shield.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 6:59 PM UTC
I was a free spirit.
At the age of 4 child’s play
was my joy and weakness.
When I was 5 it never
mattered to be 6.
Between 7 and 10, reflection
of mother nature was born in me
like a half-fledged thing
I found security in materialistic image,
became nothing in Messiah’s kingdom
walked in the depth of recurring death
I was 11 then ...
with tears of anxiety and deep depression.
I reached 12
tall in flesh but little and empty inside
I hid from textbook illusions and false affection from loved ones.
13 became 16 in a split second;
lessons became a routine than
blessings building from within.
I make countless of mistakes,
constantly reminiscing over the good and bad trials of my life cycle
when I should be progressing
and indulging my vision
how typical!
17 is an era I make up for everything
I am because God is
and it’s time I revolutionalize my generation
because my spirit is timeless, and my time is now!
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC