# #betrayal #life #forgivness #suffering #sadness #pain #mistakes #madness #poetry

where do we stand

My heart is so tired

My mind is constantly spinning

All of these thoughts on my mind

I'm afraid to show you the real me

 

Maybe that is how I lost you

It's not the same

We both feel it

I held back my thoughts 

past trauma has shown me to regress

I am afraid

 

I am afraid to love 

I am afraid to be loved the right way

I anticipate the worst

 

I want this

I can't tell if you do to 

I want you

Do you want me too

 

Why do I feel so lonely

Surrounded by you

never truely seen 

I can put on a face 

You believe what you see

you think i'm happy

really every day I am fighting back tears

trying to tell myself i'll be fine

while i'm slowly dying inside

 

I want to have this conversation

I am terrified 

you make me feel like a burden

you make me feel like you have something better to do 

guess i don't mean much

 

i'm not sure what i'm doing here 

i'm not sure why we can't communicate 

 

i want better

Can you deliver 

I can't wait forever

I'm loosing myself 

I need reassurance 

I need the discussion

where do we stand 

The Strokes

Landslide came into my life without notice, 

I myself am lost, not in moor, 
not in cloudland, not in fog, not in haze,

not in markets, but within my 
own polluted sketches. 

Excerpts from my poet friend, Nabin Chitrakar’s poetry “Formless Canvas”

 

In the circle of time 

changing continuously in every seconds 

is the poetry –

 

The poet’s no conscious of

When? How? Where?

crop up as if shaken

all at once by the earthquake

the mind stroke to his poetry in a second.

 

The spirit of the poetry encountered 

the blood corpuscle of half of his body

ceased to streaming, bending into fragility.

The remaining other half 

gushed in its veins naturally.

 

Then the posture of his body

half immovable and

other half movable

being altered instantly in its body

confronted the torture of no limit.

 

Neither my mind sensed

Nor your mind aware of it.

 

But it looked baffled

in the tears of

illimitable and immeasurable

hazy in its eyes.

In the mind of the poetry,

the inert part of its body

obstructed the motion,

the sensed part of it

forced to resume its motion,

the result of which yielded  

the awful agony and anguish 

that savoured syrupy in its tongue

chewed up the immovable

to restore its ability of moving  again 

in very efforts of the poet.

 

I’m too confident

Like you do.

 

The poet will indeed hurl

the sense of immovability

caught in his living.

*

Riders on the storm

Riders On The Storm

 

 

 

 

 

at the saloon he blew his top that day a brave soul caught beneath the undertow

 

we filed into the road on horse back with our gun in the back

 

heads were swearing up in down as he frowned didn't want to be around

 

got spurs on my shoes with sweat on my hat the brow permeates an odor

 

whiskey woman have take me by the hand it was the time we took our stand

 

so we made our way out on a barrenn path together as riders on the storm

 

it was coming quick but we kept treading along singing our song

 

we were back in the saddle again with very close knit friends

 

a snake suddenly crossed our path was headed side ways

 

on our way to inter pass number nine with our steel wheel reserve

 

the storm kept on brewing but we knew what we were doing

 

folks in these sticks live as hide away hicks getting lost in its fix

 

a slip of the hand let me help you understand we were a wolf pack head together

 

 

 

 

 

was it a mirage we looked ever closer as our horses investigated the odor

 

we were headed south and the interpass was near a friend took a piss in some clearing

 

there in the distance stood the sign of inter pass nine we were finally there

 

one toke over the line sweet Jesus we made it home fine

 

we were the riders on the storm like a dog without its bone

 

now was a time of celebration for we made it to our destination

 

we needed to take a break on a long awaited vacation

 

just then an evil man pulled out his gun shot some of our men dead

 

what was going on inside his head had a face full of lead

 

yet we got revenge and shot him down

 

never again will I be so king to a stranger in exchange shot us blind

 

Sad Eyes

 

 

there's a highway bound for glory

 

just the beginning or the start of its story

 

we search for truth out of a garbage can

 

one blade of grass swaying in the wind

 

where do I even begin again

 

there are lines being drawn in the sand

 

when will we ever understand

 

the Willow tree sways in the wind

 

golden nuggets of thoughts to gather

 

prepare for the great here after

 

as the sound of glass shatters

 

 

 

Sad eyes look the other way

 

stay inside never to come out to play

 

we built are city of rock & roll

 

through the roll of the dice

 

with the beat of the tempo

 

telling me where it is to go

 

yet deep inside we want to run and hide

 

to afraid to expose our true selves

 

perhaps you want to put that book back on its shelf

 

when will we ever learn

 

one soul soars while the other will burn

 

its a choice we make whether we win or lose

 

now which pathway in life will you choose ?

 

We May Never Pass This Way

We May Never Pass This Way

 

 

 

the close of the day

 

out on the patio

 

we stare at the wall

 

covered from the mere notion of regret

 

there is a deeper meaning in this place

 

to equate logic for fear

 

for I shed a single tear to help numb its inner pain

 

harken onto the moment in my thoughts

 

crumb cakes with granola bars left for snacks

 

the garden you had pulled the weeds back

 

the fertile soil permeates the fragment of its land fertlization

 

we humbly tred upon solace the thoughts will last

 

shelter lies dormant amidst its beckoning plow

 

still I need a shoulder to cry on

 

the Martini that you drank last night at the bar

 

sdt pitter patter of glasses clasping together

 

snap shot moments in my head

 

 

 

golden nuggets of wisdom that come from a higher source

 

the scope of the sun has tainted my inner vision

 

a soul vexed in its derision

 

we may never pass this way

 

time goes by so very fast

 

all those good moments you hope that they would last

 

no other better way then to bow the knee to pray

 

others might insist it ought not be that way

 

yet for today send a chill down the spine

 

heads today are in the walking blind

 

make sure you don't ever be left behind

 

The Dead Were Not Actually

 

 

many moons ago

 

let the real truth be told

 

the undertaker would attach a bell on the toe of the dead

 

right before they were actually embalmed

 

if the bell would ring

 

the dead were actually alive

 

many times before those alive were buried dead

 

until that glorious bell on the toe

 

There was a tale of a tramp that visited my grandma

 

it was thought that he was dead

 

until the bell rung on his toe to let them know

 

although those many years have passed

 

still having a great reason to grasp

 

my grandma would share he story

 

although today there is no longer a bell

 

I have such a great story to tell

 

The Leatherman

many years ago let the truth unfold
one man who lived as a hermit
wearing nothing but leather all around him
had walked many miles in New England
he had thoughts of wild excursion in the sun
but what kept him alive was his deep quest for knowledge...

he survived many years ago
had a stone cave in Watertown, Ct
when rarely seen out in public he would often grunt something with French dialact
looking for every sort of food he could find

his only means of transportation was to walk to his destination...
he was sometimes miles in the woods far from public roads,
Way out in the middle of no where

he created a human obstacle course that was his very own...
many miles he would then roam
on his various stops people would often leave food,

Always seemed to be in a very good mood
walked his trail until the very day he died
the tale of the leatherman has arrived.

The Living Dead

if we look inward we will soon discover
a whole host of treasure to recover
some have invested in images that plague the inner soul
the are among us yet they are not of us
they are the living dead with thoughts inside there head
hiding out in the silence of the inner torment
they can't help you cause they can't even help themselves
there the blind leading the blind and soon will fall into a great ditch
just like the night of the living dead
there hearts are torn to self, sin & Satan
eyes with spots having holes
long hanging viscous fangs that bite dripping blood off of side
they all run away & hide behind the false hidden garb of compromise
can't they see through all those vain twisted lies
does this come at any big enough surprise
shallow peaks long in the silence of the underground
demonic forces wrestling for there soul
shallow pools of gloom in a saddening exploit of a soul vexation
there afraid of fire I found that out
there's a radio in the truck
I jumped into listen to it
there must have been tens of those things grabbing to hold on
still we must be on are guard every minute of there tormented souls
by now there are no more screams maybe 50 or 60 of those things standing there
I just wanted to crush them scattered in the air like bugs
a word to the wise always no where you are stepping