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Steadily wandering
I feel for the people that never faced their demons and danced in a head on battle, at the front line all hope can be lost in the slightest of mental lapses, however we hold on to what sanity we have left and endure blow after blow. Steadily we breathe with a sound pulse of the life that has taken hostage of our body and mind. We cannot hide from our darkest desires once we have sought out after them time and time again. We welcome them, they bring new hope and optimism every time, there is always something to learn from these encounters.
Double amazing. . Love it.
Double amazing. . Love it. Love it...I will say nothing else lest I fill this entire thread with "love it".
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "
Precariously Balanced
Precariously, we balance
on edges daily, pretending
to not fall in.
.
Choice visits all the time
like a welcome guest
and we feed her berries
and candies and sweet
meats until she decides
we are worthy. Then, we
elect to be pulled out.
.
Suns rise and stars
rise to add music
to the business named
options. Happy as kittens
with their own string.
Brilliant and free
as each sparkle on snow
in heavy winter when
there is little light
anywhere.
.
You make hope, the way
joy is manufactured in the
metaphysical heart that weeps
and smiles at whim. Sad, we
climb to find a hand to
make us stand smiling before
and inspirationed imagination.
.
Blindness is one way to
see the world, eyes opening
crusted with left over
or lost dreams. Then we opt
for transparency with candles.
Time passes and we learn that
wthout dreaming there is
nothing real or good.
.
~Lady A~
12-03-13
11:15a
.
.
Amazing....and true. That is
Amazing....and true. That is why the children of this world are so very precious and most treasured assets. ♥ loved this. "Eyes opening crusted with leftover or lost dreams"...beautiful.
And I love how you explain "making hope" as well....I think so too.
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "