I have been daydreaming a lot lately. My mind wanders to someone special and my load seems lighter. My mind wanders and my smile sneaks out. I notice the little things more than ever, and for that I thank you.
Little by little I am learning. I am finding out more and more about someone who continues to impress me. I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time. You have put me at ease, and for that I thank you.
Others have noticed my increased energy. "What is with that spring in your step?" they query. I feel a little younger. I feel better than I have in a long time, and for that I thank you.
I feel a sense of apprehension. I am laying my heart farther and farther away from the safety of my walls. I enjoy the sensation. You make me feel vulnerable, and for that I thank you.
I don't know the future. I don't know whether we will find a path to hold hands on. I don't know if I can take your breath away. I really want to though, and for that I thank you.
Originally written on 10/30/2004
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Scared
I have trouble putting down into words,
The way I wanted things to go.
We met; I liked you, but I got scared.
I sent you my poems and told you my thoughts.
I was in the running for a while.
I saw you; I was attracted, but I got scared.
Do you remember the day,
When we first talked on the phone?
I heard your voice; I liked it, but I got scared.
I was sure you were someone special.
I pictured us together.
I liked you; I wanted you, but I got scared.
Originally written on 10/11/2004
The way I wanted things to go.
We met; I liked you, but I got scared.
I sent you my poems and told you my thoughts.
I was in the running for a while.
I saw you; I was attracted, but I got scared.
Do you remember the day,
When we first talked on the phone?
I heard your voice; I liked it, but I got scared.
I was sure you were someone special.
I pictured us together.
I liked you; I wanted you, but I got scared.
Originally written on 10/11/2004
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Consumed
Concrete blood
Slogs through my
Asphalt body
Silent horror films
Cycle, ad infinitum, through my
Frenzied mind
My comprehension
Entangles truth
With authentic illusions
My hypothesis
Roars to life
In the eyes of strangers
Their expressions
Or lack thereof
Contain damning evidence
Simple tasks
Once without challenge
Monopolize my agenda
My adversary
Transformed into Achilles
Receives leg armor
My vigor
Once formidable
Goes on sabbatical
My bed
Once a place of solace
Becomes my entire world
Originally written on 1/17/2006
Slogs through my
Asphalt body
Silent horror films
Cycle, ad infinitum, through my
Frenzied mind
My comprehension
Entangles truth
With authentic illusions
My hypothesis
Roars to life
In the eyes of strangers
Their expressions
Or lack thereof
Contain damning evidence
Simple tasks
Once without challenge
Monopolize my agenda
My adversary
Transformed into Achilles
Receives leg armor
My vigor
Once formidable
Goes on sabbatical
My bed
Once a place of solace
Becomes my entire world
Originally written on 1/17/2006
Monday, January 28, 2008
Redirected Gift
Crimson cheeks,
Painted by the winter wind.
Perched above a boyish face,
Never replete of smile.
Venerable, knitted stocking cap,
Pulled just above the brows.
Faded coat, holes in both,
A boy unconcerned with style.
Bare, chapped hands,
Took my arm,
Guided me through distracted throngs,
Safely across the street.
Waited long enough,
‘Til my balance gained.
Then scurried back.
Another kind act to complete.
My pocket book,
Overflowed with nothing.
Carried but one package,
Trivial gift for a dying friend.
Small prayer left my lips,
For this dear, kind lad.
Hoping from heaven,
His reward would descend.
Caught my breath,
Walked to an iron door.
Ascended twelve steep steps.
My friend languished close by.
Neatly wrapped gift,
Held tight to my chest,
Final words struck my ears,
Then watched him die.
My heart full of pain,
Collapsed to my knees.
Sobbing uncontrollably,
Whispered my farewell.
Warmth surrounded me,
Descended from above.
Through frenzied activity,
Heard a soft bell.
Deceased friend was safe,
Assured in my heart.
Trivial gift I’d bought,
Seemed lighter than before.
Back in the street,
Rushed to the corner.
Time-weakened eyes scoured for the lad.
Finding him became my chore.
Sigh of relief,
Spotted him at last,
Weighed down by many bags.
Helping an anxious, young lass.
Exhausted mother of four,
Towing her young.
Mouths muted “thank you,”
Young saint full of class.
Once task was completed,
Offered the gift.
First was refused,
Eventually accepted with appreciation.
Young lad opened package,
Removed gloves from inside.
Fit his hands perfectly,
Filled him with elation.
Originally written on 1/22/2006
Painted by the winter wind.
Perched above a boyish face,
Never replete of smile.
Venerable, knitted stocking cap,
Pulled just above the brows.
Faded coat, holes in both,
A boy unconcerned with style.
Bare, chapped hands,
Took my arm,
Guided me through distracted throngs,
Safely across the street.
Waited long enough,
‘Til my balance gained.
Then scurried back.
Another kind act to complete.
My pocket book,
Overflowed with nothing.
Carried but one package,
Trivial gift for a dying friend.
Small prayer left my lips,
For this dear, kind lad.
Hoping from heaven,
His reward would descend.
Caught my breath,
Walked to an iron door.
Ascended twelve steep steps.
My friend languished close by.
Neatly wrapped gift,
Held tight to my chest,
Final words struck my ears,
Then watched him die.
My heart full of pain,
Collapsed to my knees.
Sobbing uncontrollably,
Whispered my farewell.
Warmth surrounded me,
Descended from above.
Through frenzied activity,
Heard a soft bell.
Deceased friend was safe,
Assured in my heart.
Trivial gift I’d bought,
Seemed lighter than before.
Back in the street,
Rushed to the corner.
Time-weakened eyes scoured for the lad.
Finding him became my chore.
Sigh of relief,
Spotted him at last,
Weighed down by many bags.
Helping an anxious, young lass.
Exhausted mother of four,
Towing her young.
Mouths muted “thank you,”
Young saint full of class.
Once task was completed,
Offered the gift.
First was refused,
Eventually accepted with appreciation.
Young lad opened package,
Removed gloves from inside.
Fit his hands perfectly,
Filled him with elation.
Originally written on 1/22/2006
Friday, January 25, 2008
My Favorite Quote
What does any sane and logical person do when they take a serious look at their life and realize that there are more years behind them than there are likely to be ahead? Actually, I have no idea, but let me tell you what I, an arguably insane person with arbitrary streaks of logic did.
The first thing I did was to declare the myriad of reasons for why I could not reach my dreams as hogwash. While this was very liberating, I found myself caught in a paradox of sorts. You see, my dream has always been to be a successful writer. To be a successful writer, however, I need to avoid clichés. Clichés such as ‘hogwash’ for instance. Hmm, do I throw out my first liberating declaration just because it contains a cliché or do I plug ahead in spite of it?
Well, being as stubborn as a bull, I declared that the occasional cliché would be allowed as long as I didn’t go overboard. To celebrate my second self-affirming declaration, I even went out and read a copy of Jim Thompson’s “The Killer Inside Me”, the premier literary example of clichés used properly.
With my first obstacle both encountered and overcome, I started to get a bit cocky. Now cockiness is the mother of all sins. The proof is in the fact that while fate merely winks at the endless array of serious problems in the world such as hunger, murder, war, and hatred, it reacts with the agility of an acrobatic gazelle, when it senses that someone has gotten a little big for their britches. In all honesty, I had gotten more than a little big for my britches; in fact, my britches were starting to remind people of the "Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" song – and I’m male.
Fate, in its infinite wisdom, suggested I post some of my newly created masterpieces at an internet forum frequented by computer gamers. Fate maintained a straight face while I fantasized about how excited and supportive my gaming friends would be regarding my desire to be a writer.
A low blow is defined as a blow that strikes below the belt; specifically in the groin area. It is very painful and disorienting and, when executed successfully, can bring the bravest most stalwart individual to his knees in mere seconds. Fate, an expert on low blows, celebrated a record-setting streak of continual low blow successes while I posted story after story for my friends at the gaming forum to handily rip to shreds.
Here was where I made my third declaration. Succeeding with the purpose of fulfilling my dreams was put on the back burner and succeeding with the purpose of rubbing my fair-weather gaming friend’s noses in the dirt took precedence. Nothing can fuel the creativity and imagination of the human spirit better than good old-fashioned revenge. Hah! Good fun!
I updated my list of approved reading material to include inspirational books on writing and becoming published. I bought and consumed every Chicken Soup publication that I could find. Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul? Sign me up. Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reaching Your Dreams? I’m in. Chicken Soup for the Soul for People Who Want Revenge against Their Back-Stabbing Former Friends? Yeah, give me a copy. In one month, I bought and read so many inspirational books, that the local book store assigned me a locker in their employee break room.
While I am not exactly sure how much I have benefited from reading all of these books, I did run across what has become my favorite quote. It’s the type of quote that can shoot down even the most insensitive comment made against my writing, and leave me standing tall and looking good. I can go for years without being published and still throw this quote around like an expert. I can send out query letters by the bushel and receive an equal amount of rejection letters in return and still be able to brandish my quote with a smug, confident look on my face. What is the quote? While it is not normally considered wise to publicly advertise one’s secret weapon, being a writer gives me a license to turn up my nose at conventional wisdom. My favorite quote, my inspiration, my secret weapon, and the reason I keep plugging away at my keyboard is this: A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit by Richard Bach.
Originally written on 10/27/2004
The first thing I did was to declare the myriad of reasons for why I could not reach my dreams as hogwash. While this was very liberating, I found myself caught in a paradox of sorts. You see, my dream has always been to be a successful writer. To be a successful writer, however, I need to avoid clichés. Clichés such as ‘hogwash’ for instance. Hmm, do I throw out my first liberating declaration just because it contains a cliché or do I plug ahead in spite of it?
Well, being as stubborn as a bull, I declared that the occasional cliché would be allowed as long as I didn’t go overboard. To celebrate my second self-affirming declaration, I even went out and read a copy of Jim Thompson’s “The Killer Inside Me”, the premier literary example of clichés used properly.
With my first obstacle both encountered and overcome, I started to get a bit cocky. Now cockiness is the mother of all sins. The proof is in the fact that while fate merely winks at the endless array of serious problems in the world such as hunger, murder, war, and hatred, it reacts with the agility of an acrobatic gazelle, when it senses that someone has gotten a little big for their britches. In all honesty, I had gotten more than a little big for my britches; in fact, my britches were starting to remind people of the "Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" song – and I’m male.
Fate, in its infinite wisdom, suggested I post some of my newly created masterpieces at an internet forum frequented by computer gamers. Fate maintained a straight face while I fantasized about how excited and supportive my gaming friends would be regarding my desire to be a writer.
A low blow is defined as a blow that strikes below the belt; specifically in the groin area. It is very painful and disorienting and, when executed successfully, can bring the bravest most stalwart individual to his knees in mere seconds. Fate, an expert on low blows, celebrated a record-setting streak of continual low blow successes while I posted story after story for my friends at the gaming forum to handily rip to shreds.
Here was where I made my third declaration. Succeeding with the purpose of fulfilling my dreams was put on the back burner and succeeding with the purpose of rubbing my fair-weather gaming friend’s noses in the dirt took precedence. Nothing can fuel the creativity and imagination of the human spirit better than good old-fashioned revenge. Hah! Good fun!
I updated my list of approved reading material to include inspirational books on writing and becoming published. I bought and consumed every Chicken Soup publication that I could find. Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul? Sign me up. Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reaching Your Dreams? I’m in. Chicken Soup for the Soul for People Who Want Revenge against Their Back-Stabbing Former Friends? Yeah, give me a copy. In one month, I bought and read so many inspirational books, that the local book store assigned me a locker in their employee break room.
While I am not exactly sure how much I have benefited from reading all of these books, I did run across what has become my favorite quote. It’s the type of quote that can shoot down even the most insensitive comment made against my writing, and leave me standing tall and looking good. I can go for years without being published and still throw this quote around like an expert. I can send out query letters by the bushel and receive an equal amount of rejection letters in return and still be able to brandish my quote with a smug, confident look on my face. What is the quote? While it is not normally considered wise to publicly advertise one’s secret weapon, being a writer gives me a license to turn up my nose at conventional wisdom. My favorite quote, my inspiration, my secret weapon, and the reason I keep plugging away at my keyboard is this: A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit by Richard Bach.
Originally written on 10/27/2004
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Her Look
She doesn’t see it,
She can’t.
She doesn’t see it, but I do.
No other woman has looked like this.
It drives me wild.
It draws me in.
She tilts her head,
Ever so slightly.
Her cheeks blush.
She turns her eyes downward.
It drives me wild.
It draws me in.
Her eyes are deep blue.
They mesmerize me --
Filled with sweet innocence,
Yet broadcasting her passion.
It drives me wild.
It draws me in.
Her love is real.
Without any words,
She invites me to be myself.
She makes me feel safe.
It drives me wild.
It draws me in.
Originally written on 12/20/2004
She can’t.
She doesn’t see it, but I do.
No other woman has looked like this.
It drives me wild.
It draws me in.
She tilts her head,
Ever so slightly.
Her cheeks blush.
She turns her eyes downward.
It drives me wild.
It draws me in.
Her eyes are deep blue.
They mesmerize me --
Filled with sweet innocence,
Yet broadcasting her passion.
It drives me wild.
It draws me in.
Her love is real.
Without any words,
She invites me to be myself.
She makes me feel safe.
It drives me wild.
It draws me in.
Originally written on 12/20/2004
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
You Push Me Away
I touch your arm
Gentle fingers
Caressing
Against the center
Of my universe
My movements disturb you
You push me away
I wake up and stretch
You’re still in bed
Though not asleep
I smile
And move to kiss you
My movements annoy you
You push me away
I had a tough night at work
I make it home
Still frustrated
Through low light
I see you sleeping
My heart feels lighter
I kiss your cheek
And forehead
My movements surprise you
You push me away
I know you’re feeling stressed
It hurts to see you
Unhappy
I decide to make you breakfast
I take it to you
You weren’t in the mood for eggs
You decide to make your own
My movements disgust you
You push me away
I promised I’d always love you
Your smile hangs
In it's place in my mind
Your touch
Your honesty
What drew me to you
Still enchant me
I'll always love you
But since my movements don’t please you
You've pushed me away
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Irony
Oh I confuse me.
I wanted to impress you.
I wanted to win your heart.
But instead I confuse me.
Oh how I hurt you.
I tried so hard to impress you.
I tried so hard to win your heart.
But instead I hurt you.
Oh man, I lost you.
My intention was to impress you.
My intention was to win your heart.
But instead I lost you.
Originally written on 10/11/2004
I wanted to impress you.
I wanted to win your heart.
But instead I confuse me.
Oh how I hurt you.
I tried so hard to impress you.
I tried so hard to win your heart.
But instead I hurt you.
Oh man, I lost you.
My intention was to impress you.
My intention was to win your heart.
But instead I lost you.
Originally written on 10/11/2004
Monday, January 21, 2008
The Passion Flower
The passion flower is the loveliest of them all.
She isn’t well known for her beauty,
but to the cultured enthusiast,
her radiance has no equal.
She flits and flutters demurely,
almost imperceptibly,
and only truly opens up under the loving gaze of her smitten admirer.
The passion flower is as lovely in a garden setting
as one more private and intimate,
but only a true aficionado will ever witness her in the latter.
Her countenance is as the sun,
and her attention is the most highly craved;
but only by an enthusiast.
The passion flower is not actually a flower at all,
but the most desirable woman to one
who is discerning enough to recognize her value.
The rose and lily and even the chrysanthemum are more vehemently sought
by men in general,
but to an enthusiast,
a person with wisdom and insight,
the passion flower is the loveliest of them all.
Originally written on 10/11/2004
She isn’t well known for her beauty,
but to the cultured enthusiast,
her radiance has no equal.
She flits and flutters demurely,
almost imperceptibly,
and only truly opens up under the loving gaze of her smitten admirer.
The passion flower is as lovely in a garden setting
as one more private and intimate,
but only a true aficionado will ever witness her in the latter.
Her countenance is as the sun,
and her attention is the most highly craved;
but only by an enthusiast.
The passion flower is not actually a flower at all,
but the most desirable woman to one
who is discerning enough to recognize her value.
The rose and lily and even the chrysanthemum are more vehemently sought
by men in general,
but to an enthusiast,
a person with wisdom and insight,
the passion flower is the loveliest of them all.
Originally written on 10/11/2004
Friday, January 18, 2008
Wanting to See MLK
I finished my chores and went to look for momma. I found her on the back porch, hanging clothes out to dry. “Can I go now? I put all my toys away and I made my bed.”
Momma set down the basket of wet clothes and then kneeled to look me in the eyes. She held my shoulders in her strong but soft hands and pulled me close. “Honey, I don’t want you going out there by yourself. I told you that.” She clutched me to her bosom. “Wait until your brother gets home. You two can go together.”
I didn’t want to wait for my brother. I’d been waiting for him my whole life – or at least it seemed like it. I turned five years old that fall. I was old enough for a half day of kindergarten; I should have been old enough to go down to the capitol – especially on such an important day. “Please can I go? Please! Nuthin’s gonna happen to me.”
She stood up and looked down at me, holding up her index finger. “I told you to wait for your brother, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
“But I can,” I started to say, but she put on her serious face and I knew I’d better stop. I bowed my head, slithered toward her, and wrapped my arms around her legs. “Could you take me?”
I heard her sigh, and then she snatched me up in her arms and carried me to the sofa. “Honey, you know that I’d love to go with you, but I can’t. I have to finish the Johnson’s laundry and then I have to start on the Dexter’s.”
Mention of the laundry made me mad. We used to do things on the weekend, but ever since daddy went in the hospital, momma would spend every Saturday and Sunday washing everyone in the neighborhood’s clothes. “You’d rather wash clothes than help your own son!” I couldn’t believe I’d said it. I regretted it immediately. Half incensed and half frightened out of my gourd, I jumped off her lap and ran to my room. I sat on my bed and pouted. I heard momma’s wringer washer start up about ten minutes later.
I couldn’t wait for my brother to come home. He attended high school and played football at Sidney Lanier. If he did come home before it got dark, it’d be just before. I decided to slip out and head to the capitol building by myself. Mom would never know. She was too busy playing with her washing machine to miss me.
My escape plan was as sophisticated as I was – wait until the wringer stopped and then slip out the door while momma was hanging wash in back. It worked.
I ran the mile or so to the capitol. A huge crowd had already assembled nearby. Most of the attendees were black, but there were a few white people also. Most kept to themselves and listened to the men speaking on the steps of the capitol. Martin Luther King Jr. was there. So was Jesse Jackson. These names were as common to me as my brother’s or my own and I had to get closer to see, in person, the men behind these names. “I have a dream…,” I heard above the noise as I worked my way through the crowd. I don’t know who said it because at five years old, I was too short to see above all the people. I spied an opening to the left and moved in that direction.
As I got closer, I quickly realized why the crowd was avoiding this corner. A group of “good ole boys,” at least a dozen, stood in the center of the street. They wore white hoods and carried baseball bats. They weren’t there to see Dr. King speak. Hoping they hadn’t yet seen me, I started walking backwards. I began to turn around, but I wasn’t quick enough. “Hey, looks like we got a secret agent,” the hooded man closest to me called out to his friends – he was pointing right at me.
I froze. Two or three of the white hoods advanced on me. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t remember how to open my mouth. I finally remembered but not before one of the white hoods grabbed me by the head and covered my lips. “Unless you likes the taste of bats, I’d keep that little trap of yours shut.”
I closed my eyes and felt myself collapsing. Forceful hands pushed and pulled me up, down, and from side to side. Directionless sounds swirled around me but I could no longer make out individual words. Without warning, I wet myself. The ripe odor of my urine mixed with the stench of sweating bodies, and I knew I was going to die.
A different aroma entered my nostrils. It was clean, antiseptic, but I couldn’t place it – bleach, that’s what it was. I wanted to open my eyes to determine its source, but like my mouth, my eyes did not respond to my wishes.
Then I heard a voice I thought I’d never hear again. “You let that boy go and you let him go now!” The hands that held me tossed me to the ground, and I found the strength to open my eyes. The white hoods kicked at the ground and shook their heads menacingly but they turned and walked away. I rotated my head over my left shoulder and snuck a peek at who stood above me. At the sight of my mom’s face, I leapt to my feet and threw myself around her legs.
My mom didn’t get her client's laundry done on time that weekend. Mr. Johnson refused to pay. I have no idea how much money my little stunt lost our family as momma never brought the subject up, but I never again questioned whether or not she loved me.
Originally written on 9/29/2006
Momma set down the basket of wet clothes and then kneeled to look me in the eyes. She held my shoulders in her strong but soft hands and pulled me close. “Honey, I don’t want you going out there by yourself. I told you that.” She clutched me to her bosom. “Wait until your brother gets home. You two can go together.”
I didn’t want to wait for my brother. I’d been waiting for him my whole life – or at least it seemed like it. I turned five years old that fall. I was old enough for a half day of kindergarten; I should have been old enough to go down to the capitol – especially on such an important day. “Please can I go? Please! Nuthin’s gonna happen to me.”
She stood up and looked down at me, holding up her index finger. “I told you to wait for your brother, and I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
“But I can,” I started to say, but she put on her serious face and I knew I’d better stop. I bowed my head, slithered toward her, and wrapped my arms around her legs. “Could you take me?”
I heard her sigh, and then she snatched me up in her arms and carried me to the sofa. “Honey, you know that I’d love to go with you, but I can’t. I have to finish the Johnson’s laundry and then I have to start on the Dexter’s.”
Mention of the laundry made me mad. We used to do things on the weekend, but ever since daddy went in the hospital, momma would spend every Saturday and Sunday washing everyone in the neighborhood’s clothes. “You’d rather wash clothes than help your own son!” I couldn’t believe I’d said it. I regretted it immediately. Half incensed and half frightened out of my gourd, I jumped off her lap and ran to my room. I sat on my bed and pouted. I heard momma’s wringer washer start up about ten minutes later.
I couldn’t wait for my brother to come home. He attended high school and played football at Sidney Lanier. If he did come home before it got dark, it’d be just before. I decided to slip out and head to the capitol building by myself. Mom would never know. She was too busy playing with her washing machine to miss me.
My escape plan was as sophisticated as I was – wait until the wringer stopped and then slip out the door while momma was hanging wash in back. It worked.
I ran the mile or so to the capitol. A huge crowd had already assembled nearby. Most of the attendees were black, but there were a few white people also. Most kept to themselves and listened to the men speaking on the steps of the capitol. Martin Luther King Jr. was there. So was Jesse Jackson. These names were as common to me as my brother’s or my own and I had to get closer to see, in person, the men behind these names. “I have a dream…,” I heard above the noise as I worked my way through the crowd. I don’t know who said it because at five years old, I was too short to see above all the people. I spied an opening to the left and moved in that direction.
As I got closer, I quickly realized why the crowd was avoiding this corner. A group of “good ole boys,” at least a dozen, stood in the center of the street. They wore white hoods and carried baseball bats. They weren’t there to see Dr. King speak. Hoping they hadn’t yet seen me, I started walking backwards. I began to turn around, but I wasn’t quick enough. “Hey, looks like we got a secret agent,” the hooded man closest to me called out to his friends – he was pointing right at me.
I froze. Two or three of the white hoods advanced on me. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t remember how to open my mouth. I finally remembered but not before one of the white hoods grabbed me by the head and covered my lips. “Unless you likes the taste of bats, I’d keep that little trap of yours shut.”
I closed my eyes and felt myself collapsing. Forceful hands pushed and pulled me up, down, and from side to side. Directionless sounds swirled around me but I could no longer make out individual words. Without warning, I wet myself. The ripe odor of my urine mixed with the stench of sweating bodies, and I knew I was going to die.
A different aroma entered my nostrils. It was clean, antiseptic, but I couldn’t place it – bleach, that’s what it was. I wanted to open my eyes to determine its source, but like my mouth, my eyes did not respond to my wishes.
Then I heard a voice I thought I’d never hear again. “You let that boy go and you let him go now!” The hands that held me tossed me to the ground, and I found the strength to open my eyes. The white hoods kicked at the ground and shook their heads menacingly but they turned and walked away. I rotated my head over my left shoulder and snuck a peek at who stood above me. At the sight of my mom’s face, I leapt to my feet and threw myself around her legs.
My mom didn’t get her client's laundry done on time that weekend. Mr. Johnson refused to pay. I have no idea how much money my little stunt lost our family as momma never brought the subject up, but I never again questioned whether or not she loved me.
Originally written on 9/29/2006
Thursday, January 17, 2008
How To Live Life
Life is to be lived with gusto.
Those who fear making mistakes,
make the biggest one of all.
Live life.
Love it.
Let others see that you love it.
Help them to love it too.
When you look back on life,
the moments that will stand out
the strongest
and have the most meaning
are those moments
where you embraced life
and yanked everything you could from it.
Don’t worry,
either,
you won’t break life.
Our lives may be fragile,
but life itself isn’t.
Originally written on 11/01/2004
Those who fear making mistakes,
make the biggest one of all.
Live life.
Love it.
Let others see that you love it.
Help them to love it too.
When you look back on life,
the moments that will stand out
the strongest
and have the most meaning
are those moments
where you embraced life
and yanked everything you could from it.
Don’t worry,
either,
you won’t break life.
Our lives may be fragile,
but life itself isn’t.
Originally written on 11/01/2004
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Therapist
Tenderness toward the dramatic.
Heals those who are frantic.
Encourages away from panic.
Radically helps change view point.
Alert and doesn't disappoint.
Prefers with love to annoint.
Insistent that life is good.
Speaks to be understood.
Talks to those in the neighborhood.
Originally written on 02/04/2005
Heals those who are frantic.
Encourages away from panic.
Radically helps change view point.
Alert and doesn't disappoint.
Prefers with love to annoint.
Insistent that life is good.
Speaks to be understood.
Talks to those in the neighborhood.
Originally written on 02/04/2005
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
My First Song
In January 2005, a good friend of mine at writing.com hosted a song-writing contest. Having been quite familiar with my poetry, she incouraged me to have a go at writing lyrics. I took her advice. Here is the very first song I ever wrote.
Look At Me That Way Again
I showed up early, just to see you, and now my heart’s aflame
I yearn to show you, that you can trust me – this is not a game
You’ve touched me deeply, oh so deeply - have I touched you the same?
Oh Amber darling, I wish you’d look at me that way again
Chorus:
The way you look at me...it drives me wild
From your gentle eyes, to your ravishing smile
I get lost, so lost, when I see your face
That look of yours is childlike grace
I’ve tried to show you, just how I feel, behind anxious eyes
Thoughts of your smile, enter my mind, and leave me in the skies
I hope that one day, you will notice, that you own my heart
So if you’re listening, to my eyes then, here’s what they impart
Chorus:
The way you look at me...it drives me wild
From your gentle eyes, to your ravishing smile
I get lost, so lost, when I see your face
That look of yours is honest grace
I can picture, us together - if only in my mind
Walking closer, ever closer - our two hands entwined
You glance my way, as if to say, “I’m glad you’re in my life”
Oh Amber darling, I hope one day, that you’ll be my wife
Chorus:
The way you look at me...it drives me wild
From your gentle eyes, to your ravishing smile
I get lost, so lost, when I see your face
That look of yours, is sincere grace
Originally written on 01/23/2005
Look At Me That Way Again
I showed up early, just to see you, and now my heart’s aflame
I yearn to show you, that you can trust me – this is not a game
You’ve touched me deeply, oh so deeply - have I touched you the same?
Oh Amber darling, I wish you’d look at me that way again
Chorus:
The way you look at me...it drives me wild
From your gentle eyes, to your ravishing smile
I get lost, so lost, when I see your face
That look of yours is childlike grace
I’ve tried to show you, just how I feel, behind anxious eyes
Thoughts of your smile, enter my mind, and leave me in the skies
I hope that one day, you will notice, that you own my heart
So if you’re listening, to my eyes then, here’s what they impart
Chorus:
The way you look at me...it drives me wild
From your gentle eyes, to your ravishing smile
I get lost, so lost, when I see your face
That look of yours is honest grace
I can picture, us together - if only in my mind
Walking closer, ever closer - our two hands entwined
You glance my way, as if to say, “I’m glad you’re in my life”
Oh Amber darling, I hope one day, that you’ll be my wife
Chorus:
The way you look at me...it drives me wild
From your gentle eyes, to your ravishing smile
I get lost, so lost, when I see your face
That look of yours, is sincere grace
Originally written on 01/23/2005
My Creative Expressions
I'm a recovering cultist. One of the things that has helped me regain my pre-cult identity is my love for words and stories. I love to read them and I love to write them.
It isn't just stories, however, that has helped me to toss off the mind-control of the cult. Poems, songs, jokes, and parodying the world around me has worked miracles as well.
In this blog, I'm going to be sharing my writings. I'm going to try and post something new every week day. In homage to one of my favorite motivational email subscriptions, Insight of the Day, I'm going to post shorter pieces Monday thru Thursday and something longer on Friday.
Enjoy,
Thomas
It isn't just stories, however, that has helped me to toss off the mind-control of the cult. Poems, songs, jokes, and parodying the world around me has worked miracles as well.
In this blog, I'm going to be sharing my writings. I'm going to try and post something new every week day. In homage to one of my favorite motivational email subscriptions, Insight of the Day, I'm going to post shorter pieces Monday thru Thursday and something longer on Friday.
Enjoy,
Thomas
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