Life And Years

It's been all only full of joy and pain
Found every good, and wound a mortal feel
Evermore, day and night of open, and eyes closed
Unto passings lost here, but we are growing;
Children born last, parents we are becoming
Earth creatures, the ultimate.
But what's life, without the end
Of years until all suns of days descend?
It all a heart's fear, to fear the nigh,
Death and God, which can call, beneath his sky
Is life though life unto the living soul
I give to God of earth; it not my own,
But of the fleetings that'll be passing by,
All Human hands that hold or let me die.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Ponderous Pathes


And with the intertwining roads

That stretch for miles

Ourselves are scattered along the country side

For we leave legacies of our trials

Not carried off in the freeing air

But eternally grounded for you and me

So we can look back on our dusty path

And witness a transformation to be seen

Bits and pieces of ourselves become fractures all a while

Breaking us, mending us, healing us, in time

Our inevitable crutch of character

Blossoming into who we need to shine

Author's Notes/Comments: 

For without the oldest parts of us, the newest would be nevermore.

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becoming me

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her fingers became as the cloth,

and the cloth became 

to the needle,

one stitch, 

two stitch, 

against the thimble,

snugly fitted around the tip of her finger,

and then the lacy neckline,

 resting on the cleavage of my bosom,

shoulders of satin and chiffon 

now held in such strong arms

 reminding me of those 

that lifted me up after so many 

bumps and bruises, cuts and scrapes

healed with hand-me-down stories 

and fancy bandaids,

lots of love and bumpy roads 

to balance the inner raging storms,

as i learned to ride a two-wheeler,

to make my bed,

wash the dishes, and sweep the floors,

plant gardens, drive a car,

and pay rent to keep the roof 

 above this dizzy head,

that twirls in this trance,

and i still wonder sometimes, i the dancer, or the dance?


2:03 PM 7/2/2013 ©



Author's Notes/Comments: 

A poem about what it feels like growing up.In the poem. She is dancing as a grown woman looking back at her mother's hands making the dress and her father's guiding hands as she grew. 

The cost...

I wish I could explain exactly what and how I feel.
Human beings are stuipid that way.
We're able to feel too many things
Things that feel good and things that feel bad.
Some nights I wish I could be anything else but human.
We don't realize as people, how easy it is to break someone and crush them down to a pile of ash simply because they said something unknowingly...or perhaps lacked to say something that was important to them. 
"It wasn't intentional, i had no idea"
Something like that would be uttered out but that's human nature. Unknowing, clueless creatures.
Reasons beyond what I understand or am capable of knowing why, I may have discovered why I wish to remove my exsistance from this world. It's not that I want to live. It's that i want to live happy without being able to experience the bad things, BAD emotions.
However it can only be a dream.
Happiness is expensive.

Escaping Into Reality

Caked in dust, absorbed in other people’s memories,

Breathing crisp air at the breaking of the wall.

Tapping into the potential of everything that could be,

Barbed adrenaline furiously pumping at the gears.


Winter’s song chills the breath of those who sing it,

Icicles form on the trail of captured breath,

On the tail end of disaster that greets all with a smile,

Escaping into reality, as pieces of the subconscious die.


Plucking away at the vitality of nature’s core,

Winds howl as trees writhe in agony,

Like old bones to youthful pressure,

How we wrap our skeletons to hold in the warmth when we feel alone,

Unique vibrations that resonate are seen as glitches of the soul.

What I Have Become


All my life I have been

The get up and go type

Now I am just sitting here

And waiting to become ripe


I just sit here and wait

For anything, but it never happens

I go to school and come home

And to the paper I put the pens


At one time I came out with beautiful

Pieces of art. But all that is moot

Because I’m mentally instable

And now I come out with soot


Or that’s what I am told

Because what was once great

Now may as well be

A piece of hard slate



Written on

January 7, 2011 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was written since my accident and it all is moot. Or so I feel. But yet I keep writing, because I figure it will be like my writing when  first started, it will end up being beautiful pieces of art.

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