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Posts Tagged ‘poetic’

Hell bent to break

the holding and the folding

of these worn and weathered hands.

A forlorn feeling settles in like

a grey cloud casting its darkness.

And in this moment

the land that I love

and

the land that I live on

turns from a friend

to a foreigner.

An enemy. An alien.

An ending.

And it is here that I always seem to turn on myself-

and I create from my oneness,

another

to point my shame at.

It is here that I make the same mistake

again and again.

And it is here that this land

drowns in a downpour

of my own pain.

Hated and self-created

by myself, for myself, to myself.

Off in the distance I can hear a voice

that lingers like the lilting forests of my childhood.

I hear it clearer

as I close my eyes.

I am the storm

and the stillness.

I am the rain

and the cleansing.

I am the forgetting

and the remembering.

I am the beginning 

and the unending.

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Brisk, blue spirits waver around us

like smoke in a closed off room.

Shutters are drawn, dust is swirling,

cars hurrying.

They linger amongst us like the fragrance of a flower,

like sweet smiles

and your tender laugh.

Among this audience they sit,

these blue bastards brooding

with their subtle shaking hands–

another silence lost to the space.

Like oil erasing the horizon of a highway,

we notice this all.

Of course we do,

but what will we do?

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In a soft and fragile voice you seem to be screaming at the world,

with wide eyes full of fire and fears

and a sharp nose to match.

Like a lone boat afloat in the middle of the ocean,

rocking and rotting.

Waiting in vain and pulsing with pain.

Powerless and ablaze.

Even your bullets are bleeding.

And your heart needing. Your love fleeting.

And amongst all of this mess is a beauty inside you,

glowing like crystals in a cave.

You know this.

I know you do.

But take as much time as you need sweet one.

Let the world love you as you begin to remember

again.

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If these walls defeat you,

break this space between you,

and walk on water

to the center of

the Pacific Ocean.

Let wet drops drip from the tips of your hands.

You are surrounded by all and only blue

and for a few moments

you are left dizzy,

but not dizzy like an adult.

Dizzy like a child.

You fall completely

into the deep blue sea,

like a dream, becoming.

But falling feels like flying

and breathing and dying

seem the same too.

The eternal irony.

When you’re surrounded, surrender.

Surrender to the power

of what a moment can help you to remember.

There is an Ocean inside you.

And an Ocean inside me. It is in all of us.

We are infinite,

and endlessly becoming.

Just remember.

Surrender,

remember.

 

 

 

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All of this matter seems to matter more

than these moments built out of magic.

Embedded behind our open eyes

is a world wide web,

not connected through cords and cables

but our energy and our emotions.

Let the voice beneath our senses

inform us and guide us.

Let our knowing be led from a place

not built by hands but hearts.

Let our love drive our actions

and let us experience the magic

deep in the toes of our souls.

 

All this matter matters

more when you give yourself away.

The strength of your spirit rests

in the resilience of your faith.

You already know the truth.

You have always know it.

So much of your time

here

is just about

remembering and releasing

and resting in the warmth of your heart.

 

 

 

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Who were we before this black screen bore its birth?

Before the crystallized asses and the political passes

settled in.

Before the highway lost it’s shape and the open road

of freedom was found with pudgy fingers and

minds melted in moments of escape.

Who were we back when?

When the trails were unpaved

and the maps were unfinished.

When our minds were curious

and our hearts hungry

for those big things in life

called love?

Who were we then?

And what now is left of our

beautifully broken dreams,

built on nothing?

What is left

for us

to mess up?

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Let us bring back the broken things

and mend our hands from the glass

cut curses of a past we can’t quite remember.

Let us quiet out the streets and the bed sheets

covered in our oil and sweat,

worn away by all the walking, and the talking, and the taking.

Let us be who we are now

by being who we were then;

a friend, a song, a drop of rain.

Let us clear out the closets

with the clutter and the dreams

given to us by strangers who never really cared at all.

Let us be free,

whatever that means.

It has always sounded like the closest thing to home I’ve ever heard.

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