lay ears upon me the steady beat of fever the silent wings fly
I miss handwritten notes, long talks, music, and prayers. I miss Indiana friends.
I feel a victim of the present instant gratification culture. Unwittingly, I have been swallowed whole by a mob mentality of shoving and pushing our way to the top. The guise of morality when we know we are sinners. The breach of sacred life has been cheapened with money.
I know myself. But how well? And how well do I know you? Are we all numbers and votes and popularity slogans? Will I be diminished if the politicians and I disagree?
Perhaps I best live and let it all go. Release the slogans and messages, the poetry and art. Let my world be still. To then be reborn, so when I write or paint or dance it means I am living free. To not feed the monsters we all have become.
My mind worries about everything. For instance, I contemplated if I should allow comments or turn them off on my blog. I don’t get many, so that is not the problem. The problem is coming across the right way in my answers. Please don’t get me wrong whatever I decide. I will only worry more.
Then, I worry about food. My mother was very overweight and I was deathly afraid of ever having to be seen. So I refused food until I became a mother. Then I ate as if I never tasted spaghetti or tuna or chocolate chip cookies before. And I still have a propensity to over eat. I love the taste of food and I am a pretty damn good cook. Just wish I never had seen a plate, fork and knife. I am doomed.
And the last thing on my mind this morning is a dear friend who sent a note. Should I write back or wait a while? I once confessed a growing love while guilt tripped me up. The feelings were built over tides and shifting sand. I never intended to devour the sour or sweet. Meanwhile, insecurities continue to flourish under the bridge to cause more angst. Oh! to speak out loud, these morning thoughts, chases the sun away. I should go play under the clouds and worry alone.
What am I doing here? Does anybody really know? I suppose some of us do. The smart and put together ones.
I sit up nights worrying who I am. Resign myself to think I may never know. Knowing one day I am sunny and the next day I send shivers up the coolest cat in town.
Life was going swimmingly. I had plans. I felt my square edges had been rounded to fit in society’s cylinder vision. Then, you know, a virus spread like a bad case of halitosis. Why didn’t someone tell that person to keep their mouth shut? Yeah! I wouldn’t have the nerve to tell someone either.
Then I have another problem. The world is divided along political lines. And religion. And between truth, morality, and friendship. I’m somewhere in the gray area of exhaustion.
I realize I am as much to blame. So I sit and wonder. Will I have courage to change my life to compensate for these wavy thoughts.
No. Im not suicidal. Not this time.
Still, I need a break from this break. Sit awhile and sing me a song?
You truly deserve all accolades you receive and not just from me. You are a steady hand, holding your pen. And if you feel otherwise, it does not show.
I agree with you about words. They are fickle. But only between my clutched hands. No taming them for me. They speak back and demand attention even when i try and confine them to secrecy.
They talk back and demand they be heard for my health. And my damnation. Wrestling words is not for the faint of heart and believe me i am a weak vessel to carry these words across the choppy waves. I desire peace but get mired in chaos daily.
I am a simple fool who believes love will always save the day!
The year 2018 is locked away. The key, fiery hot, so as not to entice people to hold on. Look back.
I look forward to 2019. My prayer focuses on the war of words, which has reached a feverish pitch. I honestly hope people’s superiority complexes does not burn down houses; leave room to erect new powers and diminish freedoms.
I smell the fires burning and there is little relief. In our condemnation, humanity in one fell swoop, dresses outlandish lies with mixed-up truths.
Seems to me
as we slowly decline,
we beat around the bush,
contemplate how to survive.
Generations realize this drift,
on a sail-less boat,
the cloth wrapped around our bleeding hearts,
words confessed on bended knees,
misses the sliver in private eyes.
Same old, same old story.
The beginning is the end.
The terror in other’s minds now belongs to us.
Realize hungry is, as was,
and nothing eaten ever satisfies.
Measure our words against ourselves
need I stand upon a soapbox,
add my rhetorict to humanity’s misery?
As ash buries the smoldering coals
are we aware we are wandering,
found among the lost pile of civility?