Sensible Advice Women Taught Me

 

You start dying slowly,

If you forget how to empathize

If you don’t practice compassion,

Don’t cherish friendship,

If you forget what gratitude is,

 

You start dying slowly when you kill

Your love of adventure, your wish for experience

Growth, authenticity, wide-eyed vulnerability

You start dying slowly when you forget your youth

 

How to play, let go, and celebrate

You start dying as you forget romance

Walking everyday the same path

Keeping to yourself, wearing the same thoughts

 

You die slowly if you forget to mediate, appreciate

Socialize, help others, feel passionate about others

Empower, mentor, support, idealize

If you don’t stand for something you believe in

 

If you do not go after a dream

Of living for something completely

How can you even say you have lived?

 

If you do not allow yourself room for failure

At least a million times in your lifetime

Don’t pretend you have lived, don’t even try

 

Because compassion, gratitude, empathy and forgiveness

Is what makes us human, sweet hearted and sentient.

 

 

Lyricism Wrought from pain

And in this time, of my material poverty
I’ve come to realize an important thing
That I have no riches but my spirit
No prosperity like the kingdom of my own thoughts

The love of the universe
Trapped inside of me, so innately
Yes these must be wealth enough for me
Not friends, women, comforts, luxuries

Can compare to the range of joy
That sets its bounds of beauty upon me
In the cosmos of my heart’s secret place
I also like most all that comes

And least of all, all that goes
For change is oft too unpredictable
To draw the sunsets from my mind
Or write a golden lines that stands

As the best, of my unoriginal mind
Life is but a thought, sailing in breath
A great league of breaths that hushes
Over everything, beauty breaks the heart

In the right way, even as we
Found more joy in sorrow than
The reverse, tonight is wonderful
Tomorrow is profound, and that my dears

Is the hidden love in creativity
That the heart knows the songs
The music it must make, not me, not I, not we.

Bloom

The Prophet in Me

I’ve driven myself mad

With the world like a Prophet

To nobody, I am not special

 

With my private ardor

For poems and the eyes of peacocks

All this worshiping

 

Will bring me nothing

Dots, like lost saviors

Lines, like hollow martyrs

 

I resign myself to poverty

And horrible lethargy

A vast elegy of dissonance

 

I’ve driven myself mad

With hope and anvils

I’ve unfinished and extended myself

With water and disquietude.