I hate my pride,
And the way I’m never satisfied.
I love my drive to work and make,
Even if it’s just for motion’s sake.
I hate my reluctance to make a stand,
Even when the embers of my anger are fanned.
I respect my lack of complaints,
Though it doesn’t put me with the saints.
There are many sides to me,
Some I love, others a don’t want to see.
I have good traits and bad,
Some are happy, some are sad.
I try to maintain self respect,
Though I know I’ll never be perfect.
Oh the joy, to write with a pen!
To order words and calm the din,
That does one’s life so sadly clutter,
And tempts one so to badly mutter.
When emotions go feral,
And one’s sanity lies in peril,
Some paint and others sing.
Me, to the pen I cling.
Tis a sweet grace my little boat,
God’s gift to keep my spirits afloat.
When thoughts are confused, or feelings sore,
This little boat carries me to a calm and happy shore.
A gift to increase the mind’s sight,
By acting like a brilliant light.
It’s a wonderful way to help one think.
Thank you God for pen and ink,
I would like to make a statement regarding what I write.
I’m not trying to cause a fight.
A poem is a personal art.
It’s purpose is to reflect the heart.
It should not be critiqued by others,
Because that sort of input simply smothers,
The author’s ability to express feeling,
And prevents that inner healing,
That comes from having a voice.
I wrote my poem that way by choice.
If you like what you see then say what you like,
But don’t tell me how to hold my mic!
The stage is mine, just sit and listen,
Watch and see my raw emotion glisten.
If you’d say the words differently then write your own.
Don’t try to force me to be a clone,
Of your thoughts and emotional need.
My writing may never commercially succeed,
Or make me well known.
But at least it’s my own.
And if someone took the time to read each one.
They would know me better when they were done.
Could a sneeze,
Start a breeze?
And if it could,
Is it possible it would,
Travel across the world,
To where my future love lies curled,
Nice and toasty in her bed?
Without that sneeze could we be wed?
Would I find that it’s the catalyst,
If I were to play the analyst?
Or would I find a more sinister affect,
If I were to stop and reflect?
Could it be?
That a ship at sea,
Might go down in a storm,
That from a sneeze took form?
It’s interesting to ponder,
Questions when your mind begins to wonder.
Like can a simple breeze,
Be caused by a sneeze?
Silly poem that just took form.
Tired eyes that ache.
Muscles that begin to shake.
These are the signs that I should rest.
Yet it’s also when I write best.
I think it is just before slumber,
That the thoughts of the day cease to encumber,
The mind and so make it free,
Which gives rise to a writing spree.
What is Worth,
Here on Earth?
Is it how useful you are?
That is easy to mar.
Is it your beauty?
Or can it be found in duty?
I think it’s a mixture,
And an innate fixture.
It’s in the fact that God made you.
And also too,
That we are each unique.
Some aggressive, others meek.
We each have a purpose and there is a plan,
For each girl, boy, woman and man.
In one aspect it is true,
I can subtract from my value.
But on the other hand, when I do,
I gain other traits to use in lieu,
Of those I lost and now can serve,
Others, so their paths won’t curve,
And move into the area that is oblique.
Instead I can help as they seek,
To avoid the pitfalls that I made,
And be spared the price I paid.
God loves us and so we are,
A great treasure that’s on par,
With all the riches of the World,
If they were laid out and unfurled.