Speak Your Mind.
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For a long time, I couldn't write any poetry. It wasn't a dry spell or writer's block or anything; I had a lot to say and a lot of inspiration, just couldn't eek anything out, for years. It was so frustrating. So I took to other means of expression. But back then, seeing other people write poetry, it would seem so easy for them...I couldn't start a single stanza...I started thinking I just wasn't good with words, and became bitter towards poetry at times. But I wrote a poem yesterday, for the first time in quite a long time, and it felt...freeing. 
*sigh* I know that I still can now, and I'm not so bad with words after all.
*sigh* I know that I still can now, and I'm not so bad with words after all. Thank you for your very kind words to me Frank.
Can you stand another?
***
Siddhartha found tranquility
He learned to let things be
Govinda went on striving
In his quest he could not see
I am as both
Duality exists within my core
As closer I get to my self
I see it all the more
Then why this life
Inherent strife
What purpose does it serve
What can be learned if blinded by
The passing of hors d'oeuvres
When the feast
That final rest
When shall I attain
That ageless grace
And see the face of God
To Whom I strain
Can you stand another?
***
Siddhartha found tranquility
He learned to let things be
Govinda went on striving
In his quest he could not see
I am as both
Duality exists within my core
As closer I get to my self
I see it all the more
Then why this life
Inherent strife
What purpose does it serve
What can be learned if blinded by
The passing of hors d'oeuvres
When the feast
That final rest
When shall I attain
That ageless grace
And see the face of God
To Whom I strain
For a long time, I couldn't write any poetry. It wasn't a dry spell or writer's block or anything; I had a lot to say and a lot of inspiration, just couldn't eek anything out, for years. It was so frustrating. So I took to other means of expression. But back then, seeing other people write poetry, it would seem so easy for them...I couldn't start a single stanza...I started thinking I just wasn't good with words, and became bitter towards poetry at times. But I wrote a poem yesterday, for the first time in quite a long time, and it felt...freeing. *sigh* I know that I still can now, and I'm not so bad with words after all.
*sigh* I know that I still can now, and I'm not so bad with words after all.
I believe them
For a long time, I couldn't write any poetry. It wasn't a dry spell or writer's block or anything; I had a lot to say and a lot of inspiration, just couldn't eek anything out, for years. It was so frustrating. So I took to other means of expression. But back then, seeing other people write poetry, it would seem so easy for them...I couldn't start a single stanza...I started thinking I just wasn't good with words, and became bitter towards poetry at times. But I wrote a poem yesterday, for the first time in quite a long time, and it felt...freeing. *sigh* I know that I still can now, and I'm not so bad with words after all.
*sigh* I know that I still can now, and I'm not so bad with words after all.
The more you write, the words just flow. It's the same way
with quotes. Just see or hear something, and the words
start pouring out.
Post it if you would like to, it will be read, and who knows,
who it might help. You never know who you can lift up,
with a few kind words.
Even the longest journey begins with a single step
***
The present is too pressing
Somehow I must escape
The barren arid dreariness
Of love's lost hope landscape
The landmarks seem familiar
Though viewed as through a haze
For I have been here times before
In younger carefree days
Yonder see the quicksand
Where my élan now drowns
Careful lest you get too close
Its boundaries are unknown
The shiftless sands of time are there
Awaiting my mis-step
Its placid grey indifference
Belie the perilous depths
Devoid horizons crouch to swell
The searing grit that blasts
The tumble weeds of haloed dreams
We dug up from the past
But look! a cactus flower
How soft and sweet its leaves
Of blood red blending into pinks
And white of purity
I've caressed these blossoms and
Have showered them with tears
Inhaled their fragrant rare essence
Because your face they mirrored
Now embracing spiny thorns
They sting and injure me
My mind reels from the poison
Still my heart I cannot free
***
The present is too pressing
Somehow I must escape
The barren arid dreariness
Of love's lost hope landscape
The landmarks seem familiar
Though viewed as through a haze
For I have been here times before
In younger carefree days
Yonder see the quicksand
Where my élan now drowns
Careful lest you get too close
Its boundaries are unknown
The shiftless sands of time are there
Awaiting my mis-step
Its placid grey indifference
Belie the perilous depths
Devoid horizons crouch to swell
The searing grit that blasts
The tumble weeds of haloed dreams
We dug up from the past
But look! a cactus flower
How soft and sweet its leaves
Of blood red blending into pinks
And white of purity
I've caressed these blossoms and
Have showered them with tears
Inhaled their fragrant rare essence
Because your face they mirrored
Now embracing spiny thorns
They sting and injure me
My mind reels from the poison
Still my heart I cannot free
W
The Thief, by Clive Cussler and Justin Scott
Their "Isaac Bell" series is entirely different from the "NUMA" series that Cussler wrote on his own.
Different wording, different and less humor, different kinds of characters, less action.
it's like switching from a fast paced action movie to a black- and- white detective story
C
It's not so bad. I was just messing with you because you said, "call me strange". I'm not glued to my TV either.
I'm not glued to my TV either.