It is Love - YOU

~Rocks~ A rock must be a rock for it is what it is. But even a rock becomes the salt of the earth and sands that cover shores. So it is sandcastles are made, and roads are paved, taking us where we would go. ~Poetry~ This is poetry my dear, It will give as much as it can, it will share whatever you choose to accept. Poetry will not cast out demons or fill an empty vessel, there is not doubt of that. But for those who feel they are lost, undeserving, unforgiven, the tears I shed would that I have enough, are for the voices I've heard and dare take a glimpse of their shadows, the creeping living acid dreams within; I would sit the night and talk with you of dreams, of bodies blue, of sin. Talk though, you mock. Walk the walk, no… I have not walked in your shoes. Does that invalidate me, for naught...? ~Enlightenment~ The road to enlightenment is understanding. Understanding the atom released its energy long before the world saw the fire. Men trembled in their hearts for what they knew. ~Hope~ The poetry is my heart of understanding, I tremble. The elements of your potential for release... deserved love, and forgiving. The rebirth of your soul through acceptance by those offering love and their understanding, their belief in you, is overwhelming hope! ~Potential~ You could ignite the world with your passion, damn the anarchy of selfdistruction. I know there are limits that body and mind must face, Chemistry and programming of abuse and rewired engrams that screws with your mind. But know this, we are more than words on these pages, you can accept the love. Or reject the love.... ~Deconstruction~ Rejecting love sustains self-hate, perhaps this is the comfort found in hell. It is all you know, its all you've consumed. Love tastes like bitter root or wicked chickweed. Love doesn't stick to slimy walls of beaten flesh, marked bodies cut to the core to feel and see what really is inside. Is it alive or the dream we forget, slips of conciousness, dementias bitch. Hating oneself to this extreme would place one inside the shell; reinforced wire mesh of bone and flesh, blood for your morter made. ~Signs~ Hang your sign outside your shell, some will leave as read, others will knock and peer inside, 'go away, I'm dead'. The only problem with signs though, there are those of true spirit and heart that give no heed to the signs. They persist in chipping away at the shell, for chance that even the slightest crack of hell, would let the rain seep in, and the light ... the tender touch and sweet taste of love. ~Love~ Its not a taste of blood, or a blade or shard of glass that cuts to make one feel real, it is love.I found along the way, when I'm engaged in conversation with someone, (email or IM), my responsive reaction gets in touch with that creative spark and sometimes a bit of prose is the result. I don't say, 'this just came to me' anymore, that sounds way too pretentious and I know there are so many that put a great deal of effort into their work, it may sound too much like bragging. No. I am far from being prolific, and less than consistent in quality. But I do occasionally unintentionally tap into the spring when I am commenting. Someone has pointed out to me, this is where my voice really is found, the response from within. You don't have to agree with all of it; if something hits the mark....then we can both smile :) Written January 16th, 2002 © on Jan 16 2002 04:19 AM PST, Darmok    0 • 8