I have my ups and downs. I am criticized by many, embraced by others.
All of my poetry is not negative. I flow with my emotions. some good things may be coming my way soon.
I have published about 50 poems in the past week. Here's one you mght can relate to.
To Whom it May Concern,
This is my authentic self, accept this or NOT!
One of my many poems: This is who I am:
My Sweet Lord Part II Ode to George
The Fab four, once commanded our thoughts; our dreams, with the realization that there was talent to be heard, debates to be made, records to be broken, people to hate, love, live. Characterized by a unique style, appealing to the young, offensive to the old, neutral to others.
Expressions on disc of black, and over frequencies with no lack of audiences, fans, and haters. An uprising of a new culture, feeling good, happy. Defied by a stubborn group of society, criticizing, wary, turning sons against fathers, mothers against daughters. Now here are we, most of us grew up fine.
John, George, Ringo and Paul. Names of controversy, but people with a mission; innocent in their intentions, trying to achieve fame; boy did they.
Remarks were made, people were enraged, records burned, even the FBI was intimidated. Under their watchful eye, a group in defiance of the culture as set by the previous generation; treating them like criminals, harassing, implications of evil and rebellion. Oh, but just innocent and living life. Then, they went their separate ways. What a sad day in America.
Many things they achieved, their own souls they searched, just like the rest of us, for answers, for spiritual connections, for acceptance, for a place in this life. In their shoes, we know not how they felt, what they sacrificed to bring us the sounds of music unheard, unique, captivating, and undeniably masters of the industry. Through it all, none can deny, they changed the world.
Mistakes, yes, just as us all. Let him that is without sin cast the first stone. Judge not lest ye be judged. Seeking comfort of the soul, divine guidance, again criticized by society, embracing a culture and religion we don't understand.
Hare Krishna was the path they chose. Right or wrong? Who are we do judge? Who's to say who is right and who is wrong? In my teens, over the loud speaker at a recreational facility I head the words of George in a song, not knowing who this artist was. My Sweet Lord stuck in my head, a pleasant addiction to the expressions of the heart and soul of a man who sought religion in his own way.
Little did I understand, little did I know, be accepted and respected George for the message he sang out with all his heart and soul. Believing, caring, expression of the level of genius. A master piece, inspirational to me, comforting to my soul.
For many years the song rang out in my head, simple, yet compelling, convictions of connection to my very soul. My sweet Lord, I really want to see you, really want to be with you, really wanna see you Lord, but it takes so long my Lord. My Sweet Lord. I really wanna know you, really wanna go with you, really wanna show you Lord, but it want take long my Lord....
What a powerful message demanding the attention of millions, emitting a vibration of spiritual proportions; a radiation of phenomenal effects. Nothing less than a divine force of exaltation of the highest power of the universe. All from a man, that along with his peers, was drug through the mud, debased, demoralized. But standing fast, holding strong to the convictions of his spiritual experiences and conviction.
George, a man of life, a man of contributions to our society, a man of immense talent a exalted by millions, yet humble and compelled to send us a message; a message of his deepest feelings about his relationship with his Sweet Lord.
We still love you George. You song is in my heart every day.
A STONE'S THROW FROM MISERY I look outside and what do I see? The bare limbs of the Oaks and Sweet gums; the apple trees, and the peach trees. They all appear to be dead. But the evergreens now hove their moment to stand out, be noticed, and fill the voids of a wintry atmospheres; cold, dark and dreary.
The leaves have died, all over the ground. A process of nature I do not understand. Yes I know they provide top soil and such, but they were so beautiful when they were attached.
As doth my soul, it dies, and again is reborn. Obvious for all to witness. Appearing that I have died, my limbs of hope are bare, my branches of production have lost their grip. On the leaves of my soul, my appearance has been altered. But not by season, only when they falter.
I cannot hold on to the leaves of my being, that make up the whole me, the real me, the alive me. They fall as they may, and occasionally return. They shine only for a short time, then they fall to my feet. More often than not doest my soul endure this despair. And it's only on occasion that my leaves do my branches bear.
I watch the ever greens, productive days on end. But the pains I endure determine when mine will end. My roots are rotten, my core eroding. Each year I grow weaker, soon my life will be broken.
I began to lose control many years ago. Can't hold onto to the leaves, during Spring or the bitter snow. Yes I blame the world for my bitterness and hurt; for they understand not now badly I hurt.
Pains jabbing in my neck, like a serrated knife; my body feels beaten daily, like a stick of device. If one or the other, I probably could stand. But the mind and the body attacks this dreadful man.
Sinking slowly in the agony, no place to run and hide , JUST A STONE'S THROW FROM MISERY IS THE PLACE WHERE I RESIDE. Across the river of doubt, you can find me there, But you must cross the forbidden mountains, to find my home of deep despair.
It's useless to tell you; for help you cannot give . I will drown in my pity, with no rescue team to find me, to allow me to live. A shell is my hide out, a song is my prayer, O Lord don't let me suffer, you are the only one who cares.
Take me away to that land of promised hope. just please don't leave me hanging here at the end of this rope. Save me or let me fall, the pain is just too much. Give me hope or give me death, I just need you gentle touch.
If only you would let me, I would rise above this cliff, and walk on solid ground once more, all my burdens you would lift. A sign, a glimmer of hope, is all I need to survive. But I've been waiting for years on end for my soul to be revived.
IF YOU READ THIS MY FRIEND, I NEED A HELPING HAND. LORD, LET SOMEONE HEAR ME, AND BY MY SIDE TO STAND. FOR A REASON, A PURPOSE, THE STRENGTH TO CARRY ON. YES I HAVE TRULY DETERMINED THAT I AM ON MY OWN
So much to say, I cannot begin to explain my misery and desperation.
