My 3 Day Trip

All aboard the night bus calls…

My three day excursion to a frail mind. 72 hours of insight into the possibilities of mental decline. I’m suffering a woundless incision. Paralyzed by indecision. Debilitation of mind and body, blood soaked thoughts. My fingers bleed as I plead for the Renae of yesterday. Please…this is a reprimanded illness, the AIDS of mental suffering. I’m muted by fear of persecution. An unmentionable affliction.

The Song Never Written by HFFK

My jacket, hat and shoes are the same ones adorned when sound, yet I am cloaked in a veneer of mental persecution. I’m knee deep in a grave that I didn’t dig. A mound of earth excavated by nameless daemons coercing death. How deep is deep enough? When will the pile of turned earth be returned to its home? Will every granule find its way home or will soil be eternally displaced by my body?

Who is writing?? This is not my tune. These are not my words. A soiled reality! Feelings that are foreign yet saturate my everything. Who stole my mind?

Who returned it? An overdue gift carded by Anonymous. The unwrapped package

Low Man’s Lyric By HFFK

lays open. Etchings regarding the 3 day mental voyage, a hallmark to my suffering. The pain  a privileged insight. Feelings, a cherished commodity. My tomorrow is empowered by those living with an irrational reality.  Empathy, respect, awe, marvel and compassion laces my art. How do people endure this eternal fight? My 72 hour excursion was the best and worst trip of my life.

I thank the jester who corralled this excursion. You have invigorated my next chapter, inscribing insight into the privilege of mental stability. An ever-teetering state, resting on the precipice of instability. For now, I write for those who are paralyzed by a mind. May you be free again. I write in hope that the earth underfoot is not grave. The ground is not a testament to your fight. It takes courage to arm yourself for the battle. It takes an army to win minds fight. Soldiers can be friends or strangers. Society….Enlist

Words You Rather Left Unsaid by Crazygrin

My wired woes come and go

Demons scheming mental blows

I bleed in words, in pain I grow

This day’s ache is next month’s show

My Tears won’t Resurrect a Life

Certainty now feared, as time promotes regression

Hours clocked in seconds, minutes prized possessions

Life deprived of space, for loves chanced deposits

In ticks and tocks another frame descends to earthly closets

Mirror and clock stand hand in hand, unified to rival

Regrets yield no apology as grief spurs no revival

Pain declines with time, memories will fade

Tears won’t resurrect my loves within life’s grave

My Eyes Refuse to Accept Passive Tears
Image by agnes-cecile 

When there’s Nothing

I need to write. My fingers are twitching. Each muscle readied with grit. Each digit yearns to give value to the games racketeering in my head. All ten pawns poised to play. My thumb is the favored big hitter for finding the gaps between words in timely fashion.  My right ring finger loves that swift reach, grounding finality in a full stop.    A victory see’s all fingers seamlessly touching base with the thoughts that appose my sanity. Let’s Play. 

Today, is just one of those days….there’s a weird drone to the movements. My thumb sluggishly chimes in to ensure I don’t overrun, while the period plays the field less frequently. It is with a fainthearted fondle that this sentences finality is signaled.  Bases are loaded. My mind is brooding with anticipation for what this pitch may yield. Annnnnnddddddd.

There is nothing…Cricket pitch silence? ….Nope…just crickets.

Cheering crowds? No…just crowded.

Worded wit?.. Nope…finding wits end.

When the mind gives you crickets, play ball. Failure is not in the defeat. Failure is in the silence. Play with me? 

Image Cute Cricket’s By Emla

Write or Recite?

Why do I write? Why do I hit publish? Words are therapy, escape, hope, enlightenment and a chance taken.

When I speak, it is often to an audience cuffing ears to uphold denials habit’s. Can articulated art paint impressions on a crowd deafened by society?   Time will tell as  I gain gusto in my pursuits of shining love on the oppressed and light on the oppressors. For now, I write then hit submit. A release of words to an enlightened host cyclically navigating the stages of change. When cherished etchings are uttered, their worth can only touch those standing amongst my gaze. I write, and the wind blows across nations providing an audience far more expansive and diverse than any hustling swarm. A game of chance. Will this post reach its destination quickly or will it tinker around in the cyber clouds, sprinkling but never really making an impact on a quenched world. Will this submission be a drop that is sought after? Will it lead drinkers to an oasis of art?  Thank you for your eyes. Thank your for your minds. I can only hope that my etchings find their way to your hearts.

My mind is the pallet, words are the brush and society is my canvas. Paint with me?

Word Map Acrylic by Somadjinn

On October 28, 2015October 28, 2015 By Sea StrollIn Art, canvas, joy, painting, poetry, writing11 Comments

Take this Dance with me?

The safe play finds no admiration. The risky is revered when success is in the chance taken. The dangerous is envied, whether triumph is its fruits or failure its afflictions.

Take the chance? Yes

Shall we dance? Yes

Match my prance? Yes

Regret this stance? No

Courage should never be wasted. Dance with me?

By irv-artshark

On October 22, 2015October 22, 2015 By Sea StrollIn Art, beauty, challenge, chance, dance, dreams, life, poem, regret, risk2 Comments

Stitch of Time

A pattern imprints its quilt on a mind

A suture exposing the lesion of time

Checkered routine, an empty ambition

A humdrum design,  threads life’s intermission

That half empty quilt, blankets our thoughts

A stitch without love, sews a life that falls

Allen Designes

Ambivalence Turned Influence

Life on a whim. My rise and falls matching the occasions. Success and failure without accountability. I was just there.   A bystander to life. A witness to the despondency of my existence. I embodied ambivalence.

Then….

I found my heart could speak. I am a speaker

My sound harked for the weak. I am a teacher

Then..

The ground cracked under feet. I feel my power

Now my mind embarks on life’s feat. This is my hour

---

“Equip your lips with tactfulness to unshackle what resides

What keeps us up at night, producing pain when lips confide

Assemble with me, armed with words… to pierce a callused skin.

Corse coverings, now seeping… with solvents to your grin”

Mind to Unbind

I would love to hear your thoughts. Please feel free to comment, like, share or further peruse my mind.

Let’s get Quirky Back into Curriculums

Are we a construction of our society?
I say yes… As a child, outliers are shunned, bullied and ostracized for their individuality.
As an adult, eccentricities are often valued and utilized to diversify companies, friendship circles and forums. The quirky friend is the most valued one. Their perspectives on life enable you to appreciate your own peculiarities.
If freedom of expression was truly accepted by the pre-adolescent, I believe we would be living in a beautifully enriched world of valued oddity.  The playground is where we first learn that differences are not accepted.
It starts with the kids! Let’s get quirky back into curriculums.

---

What do you think?

Quirky is our Future

Rage

Rage is contortion of mind and body. It often engulfs its victim without warning, debilitating any aptitude for pleasantries. Rage is the pleasantry enemy! A beastly entity who persecutes the flimsy emotions of melancholy, despondency, frustration and sadness with its domination. Rage harnesses each mediocre sensation to produce a totalitarian feeling that leaves no room for any other. Rage is a dictator. When this tyrant expires, it leaves victims wallowing amongst regret.

I got a Parking Ticket this morning. Rage got me!

What does your rage monster look like? Does it have a foe?

Image by Matt Barley at www.deviantart.com

That Second Hand Book

Stained in history of hands clutching verse.

Bound in the mystery of who fondled first?

Was it a bookworm leaching to mind?

Was it caressed, yet content declined?

Pages find morsels neglected by reader.

Its table bound sentence a napkin for feeder.

Dog ears hound breaks, expecting resume.

A tale to which, heart and mind are consumed.

The smell on occasion scented with time.

Its journey is more than what’s passaged in line.

Adorned in leather, gilded in dust.

The stains filling spine brand this book a must.