Thy will be done father. I seal my lips with thine name. The deliverance of your flesh was for transmutation alone. Bear me what you will, throw an obstacle on top I sit unmoving..
I dwell above you, within you, beside you I sit.
A stance and posture of seriousness. What pagan can deny your lips contour? The weight of my woes are pennies in the pouches of well fed men. It seems as though you are here to fool me but how can I question when a glance towards thine throne, like the sun blinds my eyes. A word cast towards you collapses like a young bird attempting flight. A moment with you wipes clean my slate. Of knowledge, insight, deep wisdom of Sanskrit & my own lives spectrum.
I travel lightly so that I may catch the tail end of your brilliance. I hasten my pace to spot your old footsteps, before.. before they are covered by my own woes.
Oh I am nothing but a fool, cruel and cold of heart without you.
So a beggar will beg, an assassin will kill, and an owl swoon at the sight of the moon. A traveler will arrive and have his song sung but! What is it to Me??!?
My sovereign father, most intimate of all life, you come to their door and they wipe their feet upon you my father. . .
seems to be lacking something.. have to fill in the intervals
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Hey some writings for ya!
These are just some spontaneous words that came after resonating with my guitar. I'm no professional writer jeez don't even think it. Tap in and Tune out right? Here we gooo...
I speak to my different selves.
The one inspired by music cast shadows of on the others
Each is part of the divine play. O mercy me.
The woe & grief of heart
ecstasy of longing
Tears tear heart fabric & are released with the ink of the pen
A sensational beauty mute in expression
Senses mute
Forlorned for ages, for what reliance can a man place on a poet?
Can he lay out his chips on the merit of heart, or pushed aside longings?
Against the stacked reason of mind.
Yet! that stack tumbles, crashes, burns!!
In a sorrowful agony!
My deeds are my life, my wants are it's breath
It's movements flawed but necessary
For this time my grip will be stone, to squeeze out all the juices,
to have them fall upon the unwashed floor
The dirty tablet stepped on since times birth
Vile thing willing to veer it's head in remembrance, be gone!
Be consumed by greedy longing!
Collapse under worldly pressure!
Crack at my sight!
Seat that to oblivion & let oblivion fade
For it, it has nothing to do with I
Forever more I do believe
It is nothing at all, a quiet mouse set to scare
I speak to my different selves.
The one inspired by music cast shadows of on the others
Each is part of the divine play. O mercy me.
The woe & grief of heart
ecstasy of longing
Tears tear heart fabric & are released with the ink of the pen
A sensational beauty mute in expression
Senses mute
Forlorned for ages, for what reliance can a man place on a poet?
Can he lay out his chips on the merit of heart, or pushed aside longings?
Against the stacked reason of mind.
Yet! that stack tumbles, crashes, burns!!
In a sorrowful agony!
My deeds are my life, my wants are it's breath
It's movements flawed but necessary
For this time my grip will be stone, to squeeze out all the juices,
to have them fall upon the unwashed floor
The dirty tablet stepped on since times birth
Vile thing willing to veer it's head in remembrance, be gone!
Be consumed by greedy longing!
Collapse under worldly pressure!
Crack at my sight!
Seat that to oblivion & let oblivion fade
For it, it has nothing to do with I
Forever more I do believe
It is nothing at all, a quiet mouse set to scare
Monday, October 4, 2010
Some Writings
We are gods crying out our deep loneliness of our creator
Creation has not a single friend, a single member of company, it exists in a space that pulsates sorrow, a loneliness, perhaps it's bright burning joy is a tease, a sort of tear that cools as it runs down his face. An escaping sigh meeting with the human heart.
Perhaps, it could be different, perhaps we need to be cool tranquil beings that it makes us into. This rowdy celebration cannot continue forever can it? Yet I wonder if it's worthwhile, if a difference is made on attempts to make this world a better place, attempts to cover pains of the universal creator with words and paintings. It's hard to determine. And this space that I dwelt before I was birthed I am also accustomed to. I remember it in the seed of my mind. And remember it's feeling and frequency. With the light of understanding, I do believe we can grow into the things our creator desires and reduce the sorrow there of. Sometimes it seems so vain. These empty seas are a god awful tourist attractions that turn into a lifetime stay.
For we are like seeds, entrenched by layers and layers of soil . It is only when we water ourselves that we begin to sprout, and from there feel the true pressure that is weighing down on our growth. We have bloomed many times, and many times died in the process. Many times we have lost something of value attempting to reach to the surface, the other shore, a place where the sun shines the right temperature, and the water keeps us cool.
Can we ever reach? Perhaps over many blossoms, attainments, recognitions by the human eyes, we find a spot to let go. Perhaps as our roots grow deeper and deeper, stem lengthens and grows thick, leaves blossom and fall off, helps us to realize we were never the flower. Nor the roots, that showed us a integrity, a stability, beneath the ground and unknown to eyesight. The pedals we are not either although over time they grew more lasting beautiful and sustainable.
We are that, that watches the earth and all of it's manifestations. That peers from an invisible eye, in an invisible space, more transparent than a clear window. That which longs will remain in longing for it is too far away to ever touch a single one of it's creations. It is too distant to measure. It is more deep than depth and more subtle than empty space. The purest expression. Perpetual and brilliant, exclusively alone. The silence of our creator will never be disturbed. Not by this man, not by anyone.
Creation has not a single friend, a single member of company, it exists in a space that pulsates sorrow, a loneliness, perhaps it's bright burning joy is a tease, a sort of tear that cools as it runs down his face. An escaping sigh meeting with the human heart.
Perhaps, it could be different, perhaps we need to be cool tranquil beings that it makes us into. This rowdy celebration cannot continue forever can it? Yet I wonder if it's worthwhile, if a difference is made on attempts to make this world a better place, attempts to cover pains of the universal creator with words and paintings. It's hard to determine. And this space that I dwelt before I was birthed I am also accustomed to. I remember it in the seed of my mind. And remember it's feeling and frequency. With the light of understanding, I do believe we can grow into the things our creator desires and reduce the sorrow there of. Sometimes it seems so vain. These empty seas are a god awful tourist attractions that turn into a lifetime stay.
For we are like seeds, entrenched by layers and layers of soil . It is only when we water ourselves that we begin to sprout, and from there feel the true pressure that is weighing down on our growth. We have bloomed many times, and many times died in the process. Many times we have lost something of value attempting to reach to the surface, the other shore, a place where the sun shines the right temperature, and the water keeps us cool.
Can we ever reach? Perhaps over many blossoms, attainments, recognitions by the human eyes, we find a spot to let go. Perhaps as our roots grow deeper and deeper, stem lengthens and grows thick, leaves blossom and fall off, helps us to realize we were never the flower. Nor the roots, that showed us a integrity, a stability, beneath the ground and unknown to eyesight. The pedals we are not either although over time they grew more lasting beautiful and sustainable.
We are that, that watches the earth and all of it's manifestations. That peers from an invisible eye, in an invisible space, more transparent than a clear window. That which longs will remain in longing for it is too far away to ever touch a single one of it's creations. It is too distant to measure. It is more deep than depth and more subtle than empty space. The purest expression. Perpetual and brilliant, exclusively alone. The silence of our creator will never be disturbed. Not by this man, not by anyone.
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