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Katlyn Orthman Nov 2012
The door was locked
I knew the key was in the old clock
Twist the key
And push the door open
There was the black beauty
Each footsteps like a note
Lift my fingers to white and black keys
Push away the dust
I sit before her
And let my fingers lead me
Each note takes away the pain
Drains it from my veins
I fall in love with the melody
Filling the room
Filling my soul
Taking my tears
Making me whole
Uncovering me
Letting me show
But I'm not embarrassed
I revel in it
Breath it in
Drink in the light
Let the happiness fill me
To my bones
And come to an end
Breathing heavy
I lean my head against her soft black paint
Then leave
Glancing over my shoulder
Before I shut the door
And lock it
Mike Essig Sep 2015
by Sharon Olds**

As soon as my sister and I got out of our
mother's house, all we wanted to
do was ****, obliterate
her tiny sparrow body and narrow
grasshopper legs. The men's bodies
were like our father's body! The massive
hocks, flanks, thighs, elegant
knees, long tapered calves–
we could have him there, the steep forbidden
buttocks, backs of the knees, the ****
in our mouth, ah the **** in our mouth.
                  Like explorers who
discover a lost city, we went
nuts with joy, undressed the men
slowly and carefully, as if
uncovering buried artifacts that
proved our theory of the lost culture:
that if Mother said it wasn't there,
it was there.
Lora Lee Sep 2015
Sometimes,
in the Land of Dreams
I can see my own karma
a flicker
of flame
like those ashes that shoot up
from a summer bonfire.
Tiny lick of a second
Before it fades
I reach out to capture it
like a firefly in a jar,
But with a kiss of white heat
It is gone.

Sometimes
in another land
I am an archeologist
digging deep into the Earth
uncovering secrets
revealing artifacts.
Looking for the bones
of my past existence.
Searching for selves
I cannot remember
In order to  hold them
Up to the
Light.
Then after digging,
behold the curious sight:
Me, on the earth, on my knees
mouth open in amazement…
for instead of bones
I have found fire opals
slipping and sliding through my fingers
Cool and smooth
glowing in the night
their brilliant iridescence
lighting up my palms
like a dance of fireflies.

And then,
A most peculiar event;
A hot crimson glow
Emanates from inside, above
And below


Could it be?
Is this real?
I check once, then twice
Yes, my very bones
have turned into opals
Making me gleam from within
Sending out messages of light
Into the full dark
Of the deepening night
Trying to catch a signal
in the air
crackling along those roots
hardwired within .
Roots, like bones.
Growing deep into the earth
where precious stones reside
I am at a loss for words,
just feelings now
and have completely
forgotten my pride.

And  I stand there,
in contemplation,
all lit up from within
radiating light
unto every direction...
I think:
"This is the place to begin."

And all at once
in the blink of an eye
the opals pour from me
right out
And as those fine stones
slip from my bones
I know I have changed
both within
and without
the fire implanted inside
never to go out
onlylovepoetry Oct 2024
promised you a new love poem
every day till forever arrives,
for it will until then to
exhaust the crazy no limit ways to communicate
how my love for you consumes my
fragility, uncovering my core of strength,
that is never exposed, but for/to you,

but for/to you

my unidimensional surface
unpierced,
no one sees what you x-ray,
and I fess willingly, with ease of mind,
that my secrets are safe stored best within
the borderless country where our ven
diagrams of souls
intersect with iron & steel & titanium
ribboned lines of inviolate invisible
pure white


here I stop
lest I die of  bursting,
and yet I weep
for us,

for
you,


no longer
read my poetry
music
Train “Marry Me”
Chris Stapleton “Thinl I’m in Love wit You”
Sara Bareilles “Grsvity”
Fay Slimm Nov 2016
Now November's uncovering
reveals slightly
embelished skin-tight holds
in pre-winter flirting
of untried ***** first kisses
from her bolder
more moisturised rosy-red
lips. November's call
nips boisterous early-morn
breath, cools
dawning, catches the depth
of petalled laggards
full with dry doze of surfeit
summering and
tho aslumber shows them
her potential,
November blows her own
wake-up call of
uncovered cold shoulder,
so essential to
lingerers, with a real zeal.
.
Nicole M Grubbs Jan 2015
Your body is the temple I worship at,
your soul is the river in which I bathe, uncovering of your flowering mind of wondering that delicately hide away. Glistening in it's cave,
your eyes are the windows
that open for me.
Teleporting on a fresh flowing breeze,
one minute I'm earthly plane incarnate and in the next,
out of body celestial sea.
onlylovepoetry May 2017
native gene to my city scene,
a city where seconds matter in a make haste lives,
in pursuit of the freedom to never rush again

hadron caldron nuclei lives colliding quirky, quarky manner
some pass with no reaction,
some fallout in love when connected,
love being among the debris particles detected
after a collision uncovering our element components

i too cross against the light,
perhaps hoping for said strong interaction,
a wasty way to fall in love,
but the electromagnetic strong forces so powerful,
that not to risk is not fall, falling is succeeding

for I have survived collisions once or twice in lifetimes prior,
the love byproduct was as strong as the force required
to separate it from its leaden shell

but love too has a half life,
a natural countdown to its own consumption consummation,
so to the streets, return, looking for another only
love poem particle

the madman dashing tween truck and car,
coming toward you,
interrogatory, beseeching glance,
why, that's me writing composing us...


5/21/17 8:49
Dana Jan 2014
What if the ‘Happily Ever After’ isn’t so happy after all?
Life is never a fairytale; those are no more than words written by dreamers
What if Cinderella never made it to the ball?
Sometimes the glass slippers doesn’t match; just a myth exchanged between readers

What if ‘Never Land’ didn’t exist and you had to grow up?
We can’t always fly “second to the right and then straight on till morning”
What if Alice never stood up for herself and was lost in the universe swap?
Sometimes we lose ourselves as we tend to fall down the rabbit hole with no warning

And what if I told you that life is a game of chess; of you against this being
You can by no means come first; you’re always one step behind
You think an Ace will ensure you a round yours for the winning
Wouldn’t you be a little foolish; better men have tried and resigned

Face it, you can’t control what’s around you; the show was never yours
You’re the one ******* with strings and being toyed around
Sailing from seas to seas, never landing on steady shores
Uncovering mysteries only after going around the river bend

The universe has a funny way of working…
From mountains and skylines, to ditches and trenches - just like that
Keeping you with your guard held high and lurking
From rising beyond trees and mounting high to falling flat

There’s no way out; life is what happens to you right now
While you are reading this; you have already passed the start
Just escort life and its swings with no worrying about ‘What’, ‘When’ and ‘How’
Because one day, it’ll all come together after seeming to have been falling apart

Those falls will make sense even if the clock struck twelve
You’ll make it through despite the fact that the magic is gone
You might have lost the dreamlike point and ran out of fairy dust
Yet you’ll have happy thoughts to arm yourself instead of drowning in seas as stone

Welcome new beginnings and dare to turn the next page
You might not have a glimpse of what’s out there for you, but know it’s not the end
Raise the bet, adapt to new surroundings; it’s the only way to survive as you age
Greet challenges as you move your chess pieces around; this is life my dear friend

No one said it would be easy, keep playing till you get to say: ‘Check Mate’
Crystal Rose Jul 2013
I want to be lost
in the overwhelming
& invigorating truth
that my life has been
and is extremely so,
in that moment,
bountiful.

Lost is wrong,
I meant consumed.
Those feel like opposites.
Maybe I did, after all,
mean lost...

I want to be lost in it,
meaning that my next move
takes me not to familiar ground,
but to unturned stones
and verdant paths.

I want to be  lost
in the certainty that God
has planned my next step --
not planned, but intended
and secured it...
mistake-less.

I want to walk out my door
and when I jump
I want the wind
to carry me to places --
nooks and horizons between
where I've never been
and what I could
only ever imagine.

I just want to be
certain in that my
untouched experiences bloom
and that I loose my way
enough to uncover
truth --

and at that reality --
and maybe some dreams
as well.
Maria Etre Feb 2016
I think
it just starts
by you peeling
the layers
that have covered
that **** core of yours

I think
it ripples
rainbows and is visible
to those who see it

I think
not everyone is blessed
with the sight
to see the unseen

I think
you should careless
about everything else

I think
that this trait
is what makes you
yourself

I think
that you don't have
to fake it till you make it
because one day
things will get heated
and my lovely
your plastic act
will melt
uncovering
your inner "me"
BB Tyler May 2011
Somewhere the sun is rising,
and it's beautiful.
Light let loose
bringing a landscape alive,
uncovering the cradled colors that slept through the night.
A gift of gems.  

You are there
trading breaths with the morning.
The tears on you cheek sing radiant
in the rising fire,
and they lift your chin.

With wet eyes open
you find a world awaiting in a blooming flower,
and with each breath,
still stirring the air,
you fulfill it.

Somewhere the sun is rising
and it's beautiful.
Yashita Jul 2020
I strip in front of my boyfriend
Every now and then
Not in a way you are imagining
I do not undress
Rather I unzip my jacket of emotions
Which has been keeping me cold
Even in the summer
Uncovering my weird dark thoughts
About suppression of woman
He did not deny the existence
I take off my clothes of silly questions
Tricking him to satiate my hunger
Of how terrific I am
Sometimes, there is nothing left
On my body
I get as naked I can with him
Throwing myself in the tub of truths
As I like being that way with him
Naked, upfront and honest
Wearing stained clothes
Makes me uncomfortable myself
I would rather be there
With him without anything
Than with something that stinks
Akira Chinen Jul 2016
Everyday of being
I fall a little deeper
Every day of falling
I find myself more in
And love has
Never been more
An honor and a privilege
Than being so in love
With you

...

And the words that made
My hands tremble
To write
And my heart fear
You would be
Scared away
Once whispered
And shouted
And put on paper
And sent over mountains
And across seas
Brought a smile
To your lips

...

And now though they still
Send shudders
Through my every fiber
And quake the blood
Within my soul
I ache and long
For each new moment
I can repeat them
And here a moment
Has come again

...

My heart rocks me to dreaming
Singing its sweet lullaby
Of beautiful you
And softly I drift to slumber
As I whisper
To pillows like clouds

...

Sitting on my pillow cloud
Watching my heart
Laugh and dance
With everything
Beautiful about you
I know I am exactly
Where I am supposed to be
As I shout out

...

As cloud and pillow part
To morning light
I can still feel the warmth
Of your ethereal ghost
Dancing in my arms
And before my eyes
Fold open to see the dawn
With my first waking breath
My mouth gently says

...

Open eyes and outstretched limbs
Dreams still lingering
Beneath my skin
Your light and warmth
Still hold my heart and soul
And in the quintessence of my pulse
My every fiber
Reverberates these words

...

Another day has come
Another never never
For the sun
Always always
Burning burning
Its smile
And flame
Dancing endlessly
For the infinite stars
Of your Vincent blues
And I burn in synchronicity
With the blaze and fervor
Of the never never
Ending dancing fires
Of the sun
And I sing all day long

...

My heart a puppy
In your hands
As day fades to night
And night gives birth to day
And effortlessly
This love flows
To endless oceans blue
Where everything beautiful
Is truely found
In you
I take brush to canvas
And pen to page
And paint and scribe
Of another day
I find the good fortune
Of saying

...

The blank pages on my desk
By brush and fold and cut
Fill with color and stars and love
Fold and shape
A flower
A moon
A queen
Little trinkets
Made by hand
And time passing
Through my pulsating blood
As your inspiration
Has set forth this flood
Were I'm drowning
To say again

...

Forevers flower
In full nocturnal bloom
Your hair of crimson flame
Across the endless oceans blue
But your floral petal scent
Still fills my lungs
And lasciviousness
My broken heart museum
Crumbled and burned to ash
As your seeds
Of dreams and hope
Have painted
Inside of me
These words
With every breath
I yearn and must say

...

Time moves to quick
And time moves to slow
Yet every moment endless
When waking in dreams
Of gardens of
Forevers flowers
And honey of golden blood
Placed there be you
And I'm lost
And I'm found
And I'm free
In every moment
I say

...

Free from fears
Of life and death
Tearful flowers
Weep in joy
An oasis springs
Within every essence
Of my soul
And peacful waters flow
As these words
Travel from within
My deepest depths
And sooth throat
And burn as they
Pass my lips

...

Swimming through paradise
Lost to this passion and truth
From my lust for
This most perfect love
From your beautiful imperfections
And iridescent glowing heart
In secret shades of darkest reds
Within the song of
My deathless adoration
Beating in unison
In these amaranthine
Gardens of Elysium
These words immortally echo

...

The chambers of my heart
Turned to Eden and Shangri-la
The utopia of Arcadia
As these echos become
The mantra and the hymn
Of the throbbing pulse
Of my blood
And every cell racing through me
Buzz and hums

...

My heart turned to golden hive
And my blood to truth of gold
And my every drop busy
Making honey sweet
For my one and only queen
The only beauty
My eyes can see
Shines from your heart
And wings
And everday I am grateful
To kneel before you
And speak these words

...

Of paper or of breath
Scattered paint or spilt ink
In living or in death
Beauty is your veracious shadow
Love is the blinding
Light of your soul
Your heart has the
Buried truth
Of what makes
Everything beautiful
And In your presence
I can speak
No other words than

...

My flesh and bones
Hands and fingertips
Have burrowed deep
And lost both blood and sin
In the depths of your earth
And aches and hurt
Uncovering both
The wings and birds
Of your tenderness
Lost so long
In this cold cold ground
I offer warmth
From these words

...

I could do no less
Than place my heart
Where clouds and pillows
Dream and weep
And release the storm
And wind
Raging from within
Let my blood come raining down
With seeds and hope
To nuture and warm
Your heart and ground and dirt
To raise your heart
To its rightful state
Of purity and desire
And passion of the fire
Too beautiful for this world
Too beautiful for my words
But I am helpless
To do anything
But humbly speak them softly

...

Heaven has no Eden
And hell has no flame
Without flowers singing
Or fires dancing
For your name
And my body here
And my heart and spirit
There with you
And I would strech
My soul across
The sun and moon and universe
Just for a wink
Of time
To whisper once again

...

I carved in tree beneath the sea
Where house  
And you did hide
In its branch and leaves
Where sun did dream
Of sleep and mermaids
With fairy wings
Where I first found
Your heart and dark
And truth and ache
And voice and tears
And endless eyes
Of sea of raging blue
And blinding light
Of the lunacy and love
When these words
Where first trapped
Within my throat
Before I dare speak

...

Waiting beneath
These waters deep
Drowning in both
Dream and love
Waiting by star
And moon
And bird
And tree
And poem
And song
And hope
And pictures
And haunting
And longing
To come to you
And speak
With gut churning
And heart burning
These words for you

...

Your every breath
Your every smile
Your every tear
All flow with the blood
And truth of poetry
Your picture
Still hangs above my heart
And every night
Your voice still
Sings your poetry
Before I fall to slumber
Beneath your Vincent stars
And dark blue
And in my sleep
I speak

...

In helpless state
Of repose and trance
I watch words with wings
Chase and dance
My heart that has fallen
To your hypnotic gaze
And sultry voice
The sandman has
No power here
All I can do is paint
With the hands
Of delirium
And trace these words
From star to moon
To heart of flame

...

Under depths
And darkness
My dreams do bind
My soul and heart
To this endless
Storm beneath
The sheets of
Endless time of
Forevers night
Where I am tied
To eternal midnight
Of love and dream
And my footsteps taken
Have left these words
Written in the dust
On the moon

...

To never have to wake
Or take a breath
Outside this
Pleasant dreaming
Let me sleep
Here in this longing
All day long
In eternities twilight
With hand outstretched
Waiting for your fingertips
To slide along my palm
Hand in hand
And give my heart
To you
To forever keep
And dance under sheets
And song of flame
Where to your ear
I slip these words

...

In the devils heart
A song echos of long ago
Before shame or sin
Where your heart
Was bloomed
Long before the gardens
And dreams of Eden
My heart fills with
Only bliss as I listen
To this lullaby
And I am forever
Caught by the desire
Of wanting your affection
I cannot force my heart
To stop beating
Anymore than I can
Stop these words
From repeating

...

I wake with your
Dream and kiss
Still lingering
On my heart and lips
My empty bed
Still warmed by
Your faded ghost
Your voice still
Haunting the morning air
The pulse and beat
Of my soul
And marrow
Repeating
To the dawns first light

...

From countless moons away
Where my heart has flown
To be with you
My chest still full
From dreams of you
And from across
The ocean I hear
My heart sing
These words to you

...

These mad visions
Follow me throughout
My waking hours
And keep my heart
In rapid steps
Of lunatics dancing
As my soul
Cannot stop itself
From laughing
In the truth
Of happiness
I have found
In writting
And whispering
And shouting
These words again

...

As I burn along
In step
With suns
Heart and breath
Your Vincent blues
Mesmerize my heart
With their magic
Swirling stars
And never
Never
Could I stop
Not even after
Death
My song for you
cannot end
You'll find
At the end
Of time
And space
Through the black
And void
My voice still
Resonates
With these words

...

As I fall to death
And to slumber
Dreams wait
Beneath my flesh
And within my bones
Where your light and warmth
Touch my heart and soul
And in the pulse
Of my every fiber
And throughout my being
These words reverberate

...

Pillows take form
And feel of clouds
And welcome moon
And stars
Before my closing eyes
Your ghost begins
Its dance
My hands strech out
To dream
And with the last
Days breath
My lips let whisper soar

...

Sleeping on these clouds
And pillows
My heart dreams
And weeps
Painting with everything
Beautiful about you
Colors echoing
Of secret shades
Of every hue of red
And sculpting
The clouds and pillows
To form these words

...

My heart rocks and
Sings sweet lullaby
Of everything
Perfectly you
And I drift through dream
And listen to
The whispers
Of pillow and cloud
As the softly say

...

Everyday I am
A little deeper
As I fall a little more
And more
And more in love
Never before has such
A blessing been bestowed
Upon my heart
Than being in love
With you
My hands
Still tremble to write
And my heart
Still fears to beat
And the words still
Send shudders
Through the pulse
And blood
Within my soul
Everday and
Every moment
And I am helpless
And I am hopeless
And thankful
For one more
Chance to say

...

I have discoverd
Through ink
And parchment
Paint and canvass
Paper and poem
Pillow and cloud
The miracle of you
Nothing quite as
Lovely or equisite
Beautiful and true
As your hearts warmth
And souls light
As the endless oceans
And Vincent blues
And madness
Swirling in the magic
Of the starry night
Of your eyes
Beyond sands of hour
And hands of time
I will paint
With my every breath
These words
Again and
Again

...

With the
Miracle of paper
And parchment
And stone
Think of all the things
We would not know
If ink and paint and blood
Had not stained vellum
And canvas
And skin
History and fantasy
And love lost
And found
The poems and plays
And battles
Of nations triumphant
And ruined
Lords and their Ladies
Beggars and theives
The bard
And the Muse
All hidden and stored
In shoeboxes
Stuffed with envelopes
Of confessions
And truth
Bounded by hand and stich
Between hard leather covers
Countless pages
That have survived
The relentless sands
Of time
And foul weather
And flood
Long after our flesh
Has rotted and feed the worm
And our bones have
Dissipated to earth and gust
Paper will still
Hold the secrets
And history
Of love
The miracle of paper
Stained by the pen
moved to dance
In my hand
As I scrawl your name
And confess

*I Love You
I started an art project a little over a month ago and knew it would eat up most of my free time, I didn't picture having much if any time to write... so before I started I wrote this out in one sitting and cut it into 36 segments to post one a day... the project is still in works and will most likely take another month or two... but working on it has to this point only helped it writing more instead of less... blah blah blah mmmyep
Leonard Green Jul 2013
Complex and intricate lines define the many places
where time and experience share an integrated stasis
slowed by the infinitesimal pathways uncovering a design
to fashion and mold the intricate character as a classic wine
yet many hide behind the cloak of a persona common
in the nature protecting the frailties of bruised egos fallen
to several devices that perpetuate concealing misguided deeds
with the conceit and the deception growing wildly as weeds
only to wonder if the reality of truth is at a mythical end
giving credence to a manifest destiny one can no longer bend
then comes the realization that time has consumed life’s stages
with the arrow of existence captivated in human wages…
From my self-published book of poems entitled.... "One Man's Passage"  Dedicated to our masquerades.
Anne M Mar 2013
Here’s to the days
when getting out of bed
is a game of Russian roulette.
When the you that exists
above the sink
seems the more realistic
of the two.

When your pen is filled
with disappearing ink and
your face is covered
in quick-drying lead paint.
When the salt that shakes
from every orifice
coats your failing tongue,  
and you’re more likely
to bust your ***
than a move.

Here’s to those days—
let them be few and far between!
But if you crack that paint
and see the words before they fade,
you find all your possibilities.

Here’s to those self-same days
when you discover yourself.
Piel Arcilla Dec 2013
You were the tactless happenstance
I had the favor to stumble upon.
So lost in clouds of judgment and secrets,
That you forgot yourself.

You are the ocean,
So different in each of the four directions.
I was swept away,
By the one that mattered least.

Turned me into a shipwreck,
Uncovering my deepest secrets.
You saw my fateful dissolution
As a priceless treasure.

Now that I’m useless and shattered
You flung me back to shore, away from you,
In your final tsunami,
Your tsunami of thrills, masks, deceptions─

Your tsunami of lies.
Akira Chinen May 2017
We are but specs of dust on the dying breath of giants walking through the clouds of the illusion of time and the space of dreams
And what are we but insignificant to the great vast empty wind blowing through the cosmos
Except when we dare to wonder and question and perceive our life as more than meaningless
And no matter the size of our feet or the matter within the marrow of our bones
Is it not within the divinity of our blood and the madness of our souls that we have found the profound bewildering act, existence, ability, and song of love
A song in which we feel more than we can hear
an ability to live outside of death and exist outside of time
and act like fools while uncovering the ancient threads of wisdom that reverbrates from star to endless star
And if I am not reminded of beauty every time I see eternity swirling in the magic and cinnamon of your eyes
If I am not swept through both the promise of heaven and the sins of hell when tracing the curves of the mischief of your smile
If I do not become helpless to do anything but coo as a baby would under the radiance of your heart
Then I would be disconnected from all that is
and all that ever was
or will ever be
For in all that you are
All that you ever were
And all that you will ever be
You will always be love
First, last, and always
beth fwoah dream Jun 2015
the moon was chasing the shadows of the forest,
while the night scurried into the black fields,
placing a small toe into a sorrowful grey cloud
the wind hardly more than a whisper.

and then midnight unwound, blue shadows on grass,
the fields green as dark emeralds,
the clouds dreaming of a soft moon,
and the eye drawn skywards,

filled with forgotten dreams
the wind began to hurry
birds crammed into a bucketful of sky
like flapping pages hinged to a spine.

welcome then to the stomach of night
to moonflower and the bright light that spins
uncovering the stones that lie in the dark moss
revealing the surreal landscape to a broken moon.

welcome then to our love, even more surreal,
as we hold each other close, and shiver like
strange plants wrapped into the black ink of the night
as the world unfolds to kisses and wilderness.
Margrett Gold Nov 2014
right, into the arms of wrong
begin their very first dance
and Resolution watches from the sidelines,
fearful of nature's maladies,
a kiss creates lightning
uncovering, unraveling, rewinds
prays for hands to part them,
yet endures the crippling of electricity
as silence hushes the unknown.
B Feb 2013
the conversations
you have with people
sitting in a kitchen
smoking ****
drinking coffee, talking about life
family, kids, religion, all sorts of personal ****
that don't even fit those words
but they're categorized
just like the cupboards
got the salt and the seasoning
shuffled together in order
coffee machine in the right part of the cupboard

and all throughout the night
when everyone is quiet
and no one else is talking
and their eyes are rested
we are uncovering the deepest parts about life
and talking about what it really means
and how to really feel about this ****
and the things that happen to us and how we deal with them
these are times in life
when there is a timeout taken
in the middle of the game
and you're going through it, both lines pushing hard, everyone going full blast
then you gotta take a deep breathe
and talk about it

so that's what happened
tonight
plus some coffee, a marijuana, an e cigarette
and some *******

sometimes i really feel like a *****
not in a sense of a woman
but someone who isn't strong
that's what it's like being a man
but i dunno
this ****'s *******
everything i post i hate
and it all feels ******* and stupid
but someone out there is reading it and saying
oh ****
this dude
is kinda like me

so
what's up
to whoever this is
nice to meet u
welcome to the world
we've been here for a minute
but maybe we can have a chat sometime
in a kitchen
in the middle of the night
and sit on the counters
pass a bottle back and forth
and really talk about what's going on

even if we don't meet in the same spot or share the same views
let's try to make sense of it
somehow
and if we don't
least we killed some time
it was good
spending it with ya
www.deeperinsideofme.com
SE Reimer Nov 2015
(a ten-word, tenured writ)

~

they found her lying... 
beneath the weight 
of stolen lines!

~

*post script.

this ten word post from 2013 somehow seemed rather apropos today... with only one necessary change... it's gender.  

having begun my life of a poet as a 9-year old plagiarist, i know the shame of discovery... thankfully for me it was just fourth-grade and the shame of discovery opened eventually to a world of poetic uncovering.  i needed not copy anyone else for the seeds were already within!!!  my hope today is that she too will have such a revelation!  



my original post script from 2013...

copycats never win (10w)
though these words are true, i sometimes wonder if Solomon was right... is there ANYTHING new under the sun; are any of my words really my own?  or did i read them somewhere and then they jumbled, tumbled out rearranged as "my own?"
Alyssa Underwood Sep 2021
I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME I
(I — XIX)

8/23/21— 9/8/21

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II
(** — XXXII)

9/22/21 — 9/29/21

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ryn Apr 2021
.
Morn’s lingering mist...
Silently skimming
off the water’s edge.

          Deft tendrils reach out,
          to playfully
          taunt and tease...

Digging and uncovering...
Like a slow and worn...
But trusty dredge.

          Unearthing unwelcomed
          memories of (c)old,
          like an abrupt winter’s breeze.



.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2015
~~~

it as if I am blinded
by the perfection
of the moment

all sensors singly loaded,
yet interacting,
in a buckshot of common cause

my eyes suffused
by sun scattering rays uncovering a day's birth placenta gleaming
amidst the glaring shadows of the refuse of nature's yesterday's
discarded leavings

my eyes reversed,
unsuffused
as it they were a gift,
waiting all this time,
forgoing-opening until
just this moment

my ears suffused
by soft sounds and
swirling ripples of calm waters,
the wind teasing, saying,
move like me, but just so, barely,
the real sounds of the quietude heard
as if for the first time

my tongue tastes you,
wrested from my mind's eye, you are given,
in the everything, skin creme of lapping waves, in the everywhere,
uncovered from within the sun's own departing shadow

my smell
is the smell of life,
nostrils flaring expanding with no limit
to take it all in,
completing, unifying,
a puzzle that never was,
that is now forever solved

my hands fuse
the tingling of life given from wet dewy grass,
shiny and reflecting,
the roughness of the bark,
a natural protective coating,
combining soft caresses and confirming
the necessity of both

perfectly still
I sit amidst
the perfect stillness,
all movement unnecessary,
all my senses reach out and return as one,
bringing me presents of knowledge,
more than suffused, I too,
am trite but true,
dearest god, can it be true,
rebirthed, renewed

this ordinary day
is now extraordinary
solitary figure staring gaze steady,
a perfection ******,
impatient for the
suffusion fix
of this day, and the morrow


~~~

**August 6, 2015
Shelter Island
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1296049/the-last-thing-on-earth/

~~~

a passerby, common exclamation,
to which no workmanlike thought
ever sufficient given...

the idea of it though burns,
throat choking noises fill the brain,
all course unexpected through hot bloodless veins,
more a questioning proclamation,
a shoutout to my unknowing,
not a declaration of certain positivity,
a positive certitude of only
which questions
bear asking...

what is the last on earth that:

*I wish to kiss,
forgive and forget,
curse, demanding it soon-to-be-follow-on demise,
what image desired to happy scar my retina's retention,
the taste that will always bud
but n'ere bloom for a thousand millenniums uncountable
which poem mine will I clutch as I am laid-me-down,
the one that will read over and over again
always in grace and with tears of only sad joy,
always satisfying...

what flower will last  burnish my declining senses,
which friend, will I two-handed grasp,
saying for you,
should have been so much more...

which sea, waters, needs be my final resting place,
will I will it salty or sweet, me to keep,
what face to savor~gaze for all eternity,
whose forehead to graze goodbye,
what future to pray for my descendants,
and all those that gather to bury me...

whose breast to hopeless last clutch,
as if they could deny, stay my sentence...
or I,
theirs...

whose heart to keep close as my last companion,
from whom to beg, remember be as I remember you,
faithful and true,
whose light will I require,
whose light will I provide,
when it is the last thing I contemplate...

whose touch, whose skin will I best remember,
will be the last one, or the first,
what question will I need answering,
what solutions will I at last,
be able to provide...*


so much more to muse upon,
as I gaze upon this poem's sad refrain,
and in desperation contemplate,
what will be my last thought embraced
when I leave this commissary,
that purveys so many answers...

indeed, answers aplenty, like shiny new pennies,
all begging to be found sufficient,
many claiming audacious necessity,
but I know better than that,
the answers will provide themselves
when marked finally
"due immediately..."
~~~

July 28 ~ August 8, 2015
Shelter Island
Afna S Mar 2013
Complicated, she says.

Her feelings for him are complicated.

She’s fallen hard without even realizing it herself.

She’s irrevocably, truly, madly, and deeply in love with him.

Perhaps, he might feel the same way.

He makes her smile, & laugh like the rest of the world doesn’t matter anymore.
He makes her feel beautiful, wanted, & loved.

Time goes on...
She watches as he slowly unravels, exposing his true colors.

Uncovering him layer by layer.

It’s not the same anymore.

He’s not the same.

He makes her frustrated, upset and angry.

Tears from crying over him every night have turned into a silent, restrained sob.

She tries to tell herself she’s over it

But if you ask her if she truly loves him, she’ll say…
It’s complicated.
Battling against a tide of cars and trains,
Counting the lubs and dubs that grow faint.

Penning down each tear that dries on my paper,
Concealing the eye bags from every night under an intense kohl layer.

Braving the fences and trenches that hurt my feet,
Archiving the conversations that now go obsolete.

Witchcrafting the blood moon of its glee so deep,
Staining the red from my eyes to your feet.

Crawling down from where you let others push me insane,
Ripping me apart with the echoes of 'I'll never be the same'

Uncovering the sunken eyes, shedded oodles and revealing cheek bones,
Trying to be worth a coin in a city of precious stones.

Still leaping miles towards you when a step you take back in repel,
Tickling you in fantasies to cast on you a laughter spell.

Watching those hazel eyes drool in sleep,
Embracing your aura when even my pillow does weep.

Pressing the backspace everytime I scribble verses,
Replacing the oxymorons in us with oranamental metaphors.

Letting my veins go cold n numb enough to form a rope,
Hanging everything I have n to grave shall I elope.
Dedicated to a guy who is away not just by miles.
justaspeck Feb 2015
I was walking down the beach today in hope to collect a few beach curiosities.
only just a slice of the most exquisite shell I have ever seen was sticking out of the sand, so I did what was expected, I dusted away the sand in the expectation of uncovering something completely spectacular.
it didn't fulfil my expectations, as all it was, was a slice of what once was a complete, unbroken shell, so I threw it back on the sand.
my mind pounding with thoughts, I soon realised that was wrong of me.
who am I to pick up something that was expected to be perfect and whole and then just throw it back to find out that it's broken and only one piece of it is still whole.
It then hit me that this is what too many people do to each other,
they look at someone and expect everything to be perfect, but then they start dusting away the sand that covers them and then they realise that this person is broken and so they just throw them away to break more.
Alyssa Underwood Nov 2015
It is not the nature of things or people to satisfy us
but rather to awaken in us the desire to be satisfied.
When we seek our hearts' pleasures in temporal affairs
our joy easily fades for only delight in the Eternal
cannot be tarnished, broken, stolen or lost.

If we fail to learn the secrets of uncovering joy in loss
then we risk being driven to despair or bitterness or insanity
in this world which is so full of sorrow.

For all of this Earth’s wonder and beauty and blessings
it's only meant to serve as a great cosmic magnet pulling us to our Source.
One true glimpse of Him would cause us to never cast another glance
at any created thing and think it might satisfy.

Lord Jesus, give us eyes to see that You Yourself and You alone
are the bread and water which our souls so desperately crave.
Teach us to hungrily partake from Your own hand, O God.
May every scent and song, every shadow and sorrow
only call us closer to You.
~~~
SelinaSharday Oct 2018
Shall I..

This is my moment..
Apple crispiness..juicy sweet.
I'm feeling vulnerable. way down to my feet.
Shall I..

I'm so dang vulnerable...Something fluffy to behold.
Soft plushable..
I'm gonna melt richly fulfilling someone's precious soul.

Shall I...

If I walk into your galaxy.. look into you deeply..
Search you intensely..
Do you take it personelly.

What's in your universe..
Will what I find be just rehearsed.

Uncovering Your galaxy..
Will it be welcoming to me.
Stepping away from poetry..
run away with me..

Shall I..

With you spread my wings and fly.

Like chewing spearmint gum.
Minty fresh.
Popping Bubbles..
secrets in my chest.
Glowing cause I'm at my best.

Are your skies friendly..
Are your intentions  sacred given purely.
Like diamonds treasuring me favorably.

Will You!
Be vulnerable with me oh gentle you.
Trust me to be what you should pursue.
Take my heaven its something new.
Creative awaiting you.

Now..
Will You......................!

selinasharday rose..S.A.M 2018
@She's ready, flowing, giving,, ripe and vulnerable
Gloom Says Oct 2016
Beneath the dusk skin
lies a noble heart
the alluring smile
with captive warmth

Those hazel eyes
wandering unknown universe
And thick curly hairs
as downstream river course

Lips uncovering your smile
revealing the heaven for a while
Forhead as a rose petal
voice is divine to tell

You are beautiful my girl
A lost priceless pearl
wish you would have known this
wish this mirror could've you convinced
'All little girls should be told they are pretty, even if they aren't.' - Marilyn Monroe

— The End —