My words have become clouded.
The world that once inspired me,
now has hampered my creativity.
My words begin to come in pieces and parts
fragments and incomplete sentences.
As quickly as they come
they are gone.
I cross my heart every night
that God has not taken words from me.
Because he feels
as though I did not utilize them while I had the chance.
But this.
This is a testament
to my effort.
My trying
my tears of frustration,
my memories of when words flowed freely.
Downstream...
They say the top of the mountain is the epitome of ambition.
It's lonely.
I am trying to work my way to the bottom.
At the top
it is only a creep from the rock
that the water flows.
That is where I am.
I need to follow the creek
that turns to a stream.
That swells into a river
of words and dancing hands.
That river will carry
over rocks and sand,
Turbulence,
So that words will become smooth-
a product of its journey.
Finally that river will reach its end
its breaking point,
and that same rocks that gave it life
and polished them to perfection
will throw it over the edge.
A waterfall
where words fall violently
but cannot be stopped,
only captured for a moment,
until they will inevitably rest.
Quietly.
Until they reach their final resting place
in the ocean.
I have learned to fight the tide,
as it rises and falls with the sun and the moon.
I have made it habit to deny myself
the pleasure of seeing where the river goes.
I must lift my feet,
flow downstream,
and revel in reaching the bottom of the mountain.
Read More......
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Posted in |
poet,
poetry,
self,
spoken word
|
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