Power stolen,Silence woven.
No voice left
To the soul broken.
Humanity removed,
Difference exposed.
Protesting the darkness
For sake of grasping the light,
Only to find the soul
Just too weary to fight.
A voice stolen completely away
Left by society silent today.
For though I speak clearly,
There is no one to hear me.
Sleep sweet child, For day is done.
Rest your body
Before another
Is begun.
Calm your mind,
And enjoy your dreams.
Let all your worry
Cease and leave.
All your troubles
Be gone and done.
Close those eyes,
My sweet little one.
When with the morrow,
That sun does rise.
Raise your head,
And open your eyes.
Explore a world
So fresh, so new,
Explore the world.
It’s there for you.
What is art,
Smart and sublime.
Each eye views differently,
Both beauty and the divine.
An artist places in their work,
Heart, soul and mind.
Only to hear an offhand remark,
Of how they should really try to find
Something to do with their life.
Some people are but so blind.
The poet pouring themself
Into the words on the page,
Knowing all along that not all
Will see the truth.
The painter who sees a darker view,
Is no less showing
Yet one more truth
That oft goes unseen.
My truth and thine,
Not always so mesh,
So when speaking of art,
No matter the kind,
Be aware always
The ego is but a fragile
Easily broken piece
Of the artistic soul.
So you say
Words can’t hurt you,
Such bravado to be shown.
Strength in mind, and heart,
Forgotten dreams,
Into the fury thrown.
For though the mind is strong,
The tongue is sharp.
Cutting the soul,
Slicing deep.
The pen is mighty,
No sword so sharp.
Each slice exquisite,
Laying vein
outside the skin.
Making me wish
The words mute
Again.
The broken heart
Drips the ink,
That from the
Poet’s pen will leak.
Verses torn from
Pain so barely borne,
Written with a soul
Determined to grow.
Reaching out in word
To staunch the flow
Of ink from the ever
Sharper pen.
Vacation seems like it should be a bad time to write. It’s work, right? Still for me, at home I find it harder to actually set the time aside for writing. Too much else to do. So much household chores that never seem to be done. Too many distractions, social media and other entertainment options. I realize I should be more disciplined about my writing, but if I structure too much, my muse will abandon me. I have spent two hours today writing. Cleaning up my projects helped. I backed up a couple of projects that really aren’t working, and cleared them from my writing app. I rewrote two pages that were lost in a save mishap. I wrote more on a couple of my works in progress. I wrote another poem for Life Drops. I am also of course writing this blog post. Still. I am doing so much better on my vacation with my writing than I do normally. I have no internet to distract. No housework to distract. I only have my kindle and my family. I am hoping that I can publish the second book in the Bedtime tales series before summer ends. I am aiming to finish one of the other books (full novels) before my 45th birthday. That gives me a little over three and a half years. 🙂
Since you see the darkness
that surrounds,
Your eyes are wide.
But in your disdain
You judge…
Not that I think you wrong,
Yet still it seems that
Judgment taints you.
Paints you,
With a brush of hatred formed.
See their actions
And look away,
For sadly you may
Never understand
That which drives them
To hate.
Hide disdain and sneering glares,
For tis themselves
Their hate brings down.
You are better
For not being involved,
For not allowing yourself
To them to devolve.
Nary a thought
to organization,
Not one to abide
Micro managing
My time.
As long as I do
Does it matter when?
Or can it be late
When my mind refuses
To quiet at all?
Or early morning
As I watch the dawn?
Discipline in my work
Is not the same as
For another.
For me know that I
am doing.
And it is enough.
there is a song for
each heart that has ever
touched themselves to mine.
playing in the theatre in
my often troubled mind.
Joy nor sadness truly reigns,
as heart rending is often queen.
faces with songs exist
long after emotion and name
have fallen prey to time.
such power these sounds have
to long after romance has died
still bring the heart to tears.
what allows another to see the moment
before it has come to be,
so well to write the words and notes
that will eternally haunt the mind
remembering pain and joy in the moment?
is the muse so cruel
that the songs
that tug
the heartstrings
are but inspiration
and quick pen?
the moments caught and held
meant to entertain the masses
end up breaking the heart.
Sleep is a dangerous thing
Hidden from me yet again.
Elusive as a butterfly
Once caught on the wind,
Drifting endlessly away.
Stress and worry
Steals easily,
Peace of mind
Leaking away
Like water through
A broken pipe.
Even when reached
No guarantee of peace
In the ever elusive sleep,
For sometimes all that occurs
Is merely to waken…
Waken and weep.
