in the quiet before sunrise…
before this relentless world awakes…
at the window silhouette of my
( my apologies for posting this poem this way but i accidentally reblagged
it to myself lol, and i guess we only get one chance to do it right.)
Originally posted on dribblingpensioner:
Do you miss a period, are you worried, do you even care about it, do you know you missed a period.
I think missing a period or several periods doe’s not matter at all, do you or other people really care or do they even know when you missed a period, its not the end of the world, life will carry on as normal.
To me a period is nothing to worry about, its either there are not, its not going to hurt anyone even the person who missed the period.
The scent of the rain, the mist in the distance. Wet wood. A Blue sweater with sleeves that extend over my fingertips. A packet of chips, chocolate. The firm ground beneath my feet crunching with each step. Pine needles smothered by fog. The snow caps twinkle in the distance. Winking.
The warm sensation of laughter in my chest travelling through my limbs.
Of living brave and true.
Pre-note: I apologise for how long this is… but I do need your help. I would be really glad if I got title suggestions for this poem. It was written by my boyfriend a while back, and we only recently decided to publish his collection with his permission. I believe it only proper that we appendage the name of whomever’s title sounds as a right fit for the poem along-side it in the publication. Thanks in advance… and for taking the time to read.
Wind. Mind and illusion.
Three words of freedom and dream. Dream.
Dream and ambition.
Two words of bravery, audacity and ego.
That which labels not two words or three, or four,
Neither dream nor ambition, neither mind nor illusion,
Four words of placid bewilderment.
Of deep thought and belief, of conviction and denial,
Antonyms and metaphors. Hypothetical self-esteem,
Purely primordial imagination, prayers and chants to invisible airs,
Inferior noises to the blue skies of day, and black skies at twilight,
Compounded sequences of disturbed segments of notion,
In reposed action, flowery paradises of the future.
Ironies of reality, desperate desire and inception,
Four words of critic and mockery,
Extinct possibilities, like as melting glaciers in the winters,
Simmers of boiling emotion, freezing the ice,
Breaking the skies and pouring evils upon earth.
Desire. Desperate desire,
Needs of the soul, penumbral wishes of the body,
Vain. Dark and vain, aimless as the clouds,
Trailing the wind and erasing the silver lining,
Foundations. The origins of the genesis, the irony,
And absolute misery of rains under the sun,
Illusion. The fantasy of a wet sun, melting the clouds to create the rain,
Chimeras that the eyes can feel and the skin can see,
Figments of daydream, visions of fragmented stars,
Is it the blue in the oceans, or the skies?
Is it the green in the park, or the illusion of the mind’s eye?
Clockwork and timeless manufacture of fabrications,
Beauty inexistent, a whole new world.
That which is created in the mind, is that which is not
The action offered in the physical.
The real world.
Ego. Is all it is?
Decharacterised delusion of self,
Constructed being, that which we may not be- wind.
Airs that shred the summer leaves, that burn the rains,
Black skins in white coating, silver with a clouded lining,
Persons that we are not ready to be,
That is who we are. Non-realities.
Simulated mockeries of God’s image,
Wind. Mind and illusion.
Our minds, caught in wild illusions carried swiftly by the winds,
Carried away to a distant place in these dreams.
What is sadness? the loss of that which is whole or holy..
Rumi said, “Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”
The well was cool and nourishing
and deep, but years ago
in an act of courage and
defiance, you moved the heavy
stone across the opening, allowed
the thorny branches to grow over
and around it, so that no one
could disturb your tomb, or drink
its healing waters, and you turned
your back, confident that the thorns
would do their job to keep the trespassers
out, but what you could not see in your
rage and self-hatred, was that the thorns
and brambles shadowed you in your
exile, shrouded you in your attempt to be
invisible, shrunk at your valiant effort
to fight them back, grew thicker and
stronger, shielding you from the world
of your creation, until that day when
the thorns pressed deep into your
flesh and you finally tasted the sting
in the back of your throat, and it was then
that you knew the only respite left was to
return to source, and there in that ancient
place, you tore back the branches and
brambles, bleeding and broken, but it was
too late to care, and you uncovered the patient
stone, waiting for your return, and there
as you wildly plunged yourself into the waters,
as if returning to your mother’s womb,
there you realized that the thorns you fled had grown
out from the belly of your pain, and that you,
you are the trespasser, bathing in your own
well of salvation