Thursday, December 29, 2011


Life feels hard sometimes
except it isn't,
for it is precisely what we make it.
Where I am right now
is where I lead myself
and the feelings that come along
with each perpetual destination
that is here and now
are dust
that blow
in the breeze.

What does it mean,
To have a life that is of what you make it?
What does it mean,
To create your life?
The thoughts you plant
the feelings that grow
the actions you harvest
become the life you manifest.

It is all up to you
where you go
what you see
what you choose.

What do you want?
What are you thinking?
What are you feeling?
What are you doing?
What life are you living?
What life are you living?
What life are you living?
What life are you living?

It's up

1 comment:

  1. Life, or so it seems,
    when left with broken dreams.
    and interpretations obscene,
    Does make living a pastime of rejoicing
    for lesser moments still,
    One moment you argue with anger when truth you instill
    The next you wonder oft to another's view
    views that in your immediate world are held by few,
    Ideas you brought and thought and outwardly threw,
    collected and nurtured by some you never knew.
    while surrounded by scum who from you ate and withdrew,
    filled you with hate, to mentally ire. and turn your dreams and desire
    to dust.
    when you see nothing inside but a lack of truth a trust
    and you wish only for a peace a solitude inside and outside
    while you feel ill from the means that they try to use you
    accuse and abuse you..and misuse all that you made as if it needs remodeling with reality checks by those who have not an iota,
    of humanity left inside,
    they scream and send you feelings and deride,
    where life seem hollow as if it just went away
    I stand and see you come my way..
    yet know you will as the wind that comes and touches me pass
    and i look at you through this thin plastic, transparent glass..
    your far away, more far than i can yell
    and one day you will forget what came to you unwell,
    Life no longer here inside me will dwell,
    hate will no longer have a home in me,
    and then i will go and maybe then will be free
    i might come your way then as a friendly sprite
    and maybe turning leaves in circles around will feel right
    in this imperfect world there are places where hell
    pretends to be connected people who wish each other well
    and they ponder aspects of each others lives
    share each others daughters, sisters mothers and wives..
    Life, is what you make of it I agree..
    But when i ask will Omar be finally free?


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