I believe in the Power of Love, call me stubborn.
Did I feel that she was less than me. Did I see her as inferior…thus she must be in pain? She was evidently intellectually disabled and I immediately felt bad, I felt pity. Who am I to feel pity, what authority do I possess? Who is to say she was in pain? What I see as supposed normality is mine, but for her, her existence is normality. And for him, and for them, and for they – their normality is theirs! What if she sees us as the sufferers? It is known that those with autism live on a different spectrum of life. They see, hear sounds, and experience the world in complete difference, I wonder if they feel pity for us?
Normal. Normal. Normal. This word itself is the quintessence of insanity, of abnormality. I think I am the one suffering, I think we are the ones who are striving to fit in. To be normal, this very idea should be pitied.
I became uncomfortable with my own presence. I felt disgusted with my thoughts, which where uncontrollable. I had no control, the emotions I felt became of its own will. I see a journey in us all to undo all that we have been told and gather new consciousness and perspective. It will not be easy to undo that which operates on a unconscious level ; to thwart that which thinks before we think.
I use to pity the disabled, now I pity myself.
If we can love then surely it be in us to un-love. If we so accurately choose pain then we surely have the power to choose fortune. We become our thoughts, the pain attaches to our spirits and soon after our auras are dimmed and tarnished.
I Decide. I decide to think of the apple delicious, it is thus delicious – and to him or her not so much. Equally I shall decide pain of the past to be triumphant. I am no longer there, it is not my present, but indeed was it a gift.
~Dear Sir, why do you hurt?
I hurt because the heart wants what it wants.
Dear Sir, do you think you are worthless?
Dear Sir, then I ask you why do you hurt?
I hurt because I want to be loved.
Dear Sir, is there no one that loves you at all?
Yes there is, but I want to be loved by a lover.
Dear Sir, your lover already loves you as you love them.
OK, but where are they?
Dear Sir, they are searching for you as you seek them. But do not seek them in Brothels and with Thieves. Wait for them where they patiently await you – your heart.~
I have come to far to give up now. Thoughts rule this world. Control your thoughts, control your world. I am only heartbroken if I say I am. I am only ugly if I choose to be. You are beautiful, you are wonderful, you are godly.
~From silky water, a goddess adorned in silver extended her arm with stars in her eyes. Her hand unfolded like a blossoming rose and in it she held my heart of gold. “No matter how hard the flesh may grow give not your heart to wanted eyes. As the gold shimmered in vibrations congruent with my breathing the waters in which we stood trembled. Oaks as tall as mountains shielded their eyes and rocks turned to dust. “Love is the strongest magic we have in this world. Use it wisely or be destroyed by its allure.” ~
Normal people just say “I’m Tired,” but for a writer it is never that simple. Those words would never describe inside. A mind filled with commas, spaces, poetic pauses, and multiple literally elements is far too convoluted and filled to use common words.
This is me saying I’m tired. This is me saying I want to take a nap. Talk about dramatic!
~I took a step and thought it was firm. The bottom of the staircase bruised and beaten I look up for help. Raise my hands, grab the edge, and yell.
Today is still a good day, I remind myself. Just a little blood, a twisted ankle, and wrangled back – my watch still works. It’s 5:00 o’clock, the entire night is ahead. I have people to call, words to look up, day dreams to scribble down, I got to get up. But it feels good to lay down for once. The blood is warm. My foot looks like a puppet’s, without its master. ~
A swelling of tears tsunami’s his bowels. A bouquet of smiles for onlookers.
Eyes, a humanistic dam grappling pain. Sweetest gestures of joviality to passersby’s.
Tears dropping, mouth wide open, clutching a towel against his face – no sound.
He washes his face, dries his hands, brushes the beard, and primps his shirt, a meeting in 10.
Expect laughter, wait for the punch line, be inspired by his presence, adore his perfectionism.
But miss his humanity. Mistake his red eyes as hardworking. Assume his tardiness as busy, make light of his bruises as battles won, and lastly jest of his silver… platter… life.
If I ever find myself weak, weak in thought and weak in spirit, may I be reminded of the infinite power of my ancestors. May I dip myself in their prayers and hymnal voices. Drought, death, and dread could not spear their souls. Why shall I encourage power less than mine to overcome.
The dead walk beside me, they course through me. I am because they were. “I come as one, but stand as 10,000.”
Tonight I want to sleep alone, no hand wrapped around my waist pretending to be someone, no pillow on my chest acting as a man’s head.
I want to lay in my spirit, cocooned by my angels and lulled by Jesus himself.
The power of words colliding with the soul. Pure infiltration. A bodily release of ecstasy. Two bodies joining as one. Thrust. breath. Relax. Thrust. Breath. Relax.
How deep your roots. How pleasant your fruit. Tell me your secrets. What is god like? Does he smile, does she dance? Is it fair? Tell me how the beginning was nothing more than the end. How beautiful was the first step of man? The first birth of women. How she elegantly combed her hair. How deep does the soul really go? I wonder if the pain of love is truly etched on our hearts. Can you draw a dream from the scars? I imagine heaven is like soup, tomato soup. Warm, dedicated, and made with love.