Things don’t always play out the way we expect them to. Sometimes they turn out better. Other times we hit rock bottom. Then there are times when that very same rock bottom becomes the silver lining. The darkest hour before dawn.
I wrote this poem when I was a teenager and posted it on an old blog that I wrote back in the day.
Reading through this old blog, I realized that as much as I am older now, some things are yet to change. When I wrote this poem, I was curious about love. To me, love was this bizarre emotion that transcended definition. I could never quite understand the concept of love. It was completely alien to me. I did not comprehend how one finds that special someone who becomes the best thing in their life. I wondered how one would know when they met someone worth keeping. I could not grasp the idea of being so certain about one’s feelings for another. Continue reading “When the Soul Seeks”
We live as if we have all day and every day.
But all we have is now, not someday.
If we forever miss the now, then what will be done?
If we miss our chance, then we have less than won.
Opportunity comes, opportunity goes.
What will we make of it? What seeds will be sown?
We live as if our days we can borrow.
Let me tell you something. We never have tomorrow.
For when tomorrow comes, it will be today.
So act now and not some other date.
What is that one thing you’ve always wanted to give a shot?
Would you move towards the goal in the time that you’ve got?
Maybe eighty years is a long breadth of time—
But already eight seconds passed while reading this rhyme.
You have the Now—move forward while you still have the chance.
Chance is not a roll of the die; not some probability stat.
Chance is given to the opportunist . . . who seizes the Moment for what it is.
Focus. Don’t let anything, anyone hold you back from your Dreams.
You have Today. You have Now.
Dear Opportunist, Now is the Time to take the die out of the equation and—Step Out.
This poem goes out to all those people who find themselves at a place where they never imagined they possibly could: Faced with the overwhelming dilemma of whether to keep their unborn child, or not. I do not have the right suggest of what choice would be better. But my heart goes out to you at your hour of desperation, of terror and of confusion. I dedicate this poem to you who finds yourself in this situation.
Where is the Worth
Detestful catastrophic dreadful destiny
times filled with piercing pain
fear tearing deep in the soul
gushing hot tears, spasms and sputters
A tense load of murder,broken ties
the devil’s helper he the master
desire to accomplish, longing to surrender
undeserving angel, tiny beast
Innocence above the line of lifelessness
a need to fold up and keep folding up
to shrink to a coin, drop through the gutter
urgency to disappear, more desperation
Buckets of pain, unshed tears, broken ties,
lost love, unformed flesh hiding in the womb,
plunged in depths of sunken evil
struggle in total darkness,
frustration, every muscle strained,
every heart bleeding,
to finally conquer, but where’s the worth?
To Be Loosed
To clear the clarity of confusion
And stomp upon its muddy waters,
Seeking to find meaning with further chaos.
But it is such dissention of the mind
That is soothed, and brought to some
Reasonable piece of order by the pen.
Do not misunderstand me. I care nothing of reason, common sense, or the rational.
When pen is in hand, my mind is free—
Free to explore the unexplainable.
Free to make a muse of the unresolved present predicament.
Wild at heart like a stallion that has its reigns loosed.
No longer is there need for the obedience of conventionality.
Words usher out just as they please, never to be critiqued—
Although perhaps refined at some distant date.
But in the moment the pen touches the sheet,
A ferocious spill-over of mind-boggling thoughts converge into black ink,
Impressing their mark onto the white.
The grip upon my mind has finally been loosed.