Tag: Poetry

I had my hopes for you.
I truly
did.
But it appears
that you cannot face
your shadow
until you have dealt
with his.
What you once were
is no more
for as long as you lay
in ignorance
of your suffering.
You truly are
your father’s
daughter.

What a pity.

~lt

Should you seek
a truly humbling experience
go out
and walk
in nature.
There you will encounter
countless beings
existing
that have no idea
you even exist
and that you had no idea
even existed.
The longer you spend
out in the wilds
you may notice
a rather peculiar thing;
you are quite small,
unbelievably so,
and while you may be experiencing
monumental trials
it becomes so dwarfed
by nature
that you discover
it never was
as monumental
as you once thought.
You become
empty
and yet
somehow
you have never been more full
than you are
right now.
A gentle breeze
among the pines,
a smooth warble
of a feathered creature,
the babbling
of a soft-spoken brook.
Small things,
to be sure,
but
then again
the biggest things
often are.

~lt

Abyss.
A great
black.
Nothingness.
It is from here
that we come forth,
built to shape the world
into an image
who’s origins we can not remember.
And it is to this same
dark
blanket
of Nothingness
that we return.
But
it is not truly
nothing
for if everything
comes from it
then Nothing
becomes
Everything.
You
and I
separated
by circumstances,
by time,
by egos,
by this Great Illusion
of seperation;
we are from the same
Nothing.
There should be
a great eagerness
then
to return to this Nothing
instead of fear.
Fear is nothing more
than the ego
afraid to lose itself.
But,
in Nothing,
there is no greater sense
of freedom
for we all return
and become as one
once again.

~lt

I have heard it said
that art
in its most pure
and raw sense of the word
is a lot less like
creating a masterpiece
and more like
allowing an external force
complete control
of your functions
and to merely observe
as it takes hold of you
and moves you to create.
I am no artist
that much is true
but still
I wonder;
could our art
be this force
attempting to realize
itself?
To actualize itself
in our clumsy world?
Perhaps that is why
art is different
depending on who you are
for we all experience this world
a bit differently
and maybe this force
needs to see itself
in as many reflections as possible
to understand itself.
Who knows?

~lt

I want to know
how your skin dances
atop your bones.
I want to know
where the lines in your face
lead;
to joy
or sadness?
I want to know
the kind of foot print
you leave in the warm
sun-kissed sand.
I want to know
what comes to your mind
when you smell
the smokey tones
of a fire.
There exists within you
nothing short of a library
of experiences
and trials
and I want to know them all.
I want
to know.

~lt

Who were you
before you
were you?
Before expectations
before predictions
before delusions
before perspectives;
who were you
before you
were you?

~lt

I grow weary
of those who spread thorns
only to walk barefoot
and complain
of their ailments.
If you cannot even be held accountable
for your own self
what hope have you
of ever becoming
something more?

~lt