If your hands are full of hate
You can’t receive peace
If your heart is full of bitterness
You have no room for love
If your mind is full of fear
You can’t think of paths as clear
If you hang on to history’s baggage
You can’t fly into promised lands
Sometimes loosing is not a loss
If you are opening and making room
For what is yet to come
The flower bloomed
Because of dirt
Through shit and gloom
Because of hurt
The more dirt some threw
The more the flower grew
Some called it dirt
The flower called it fertilizer
Than went on to Bloom
A word is a note
That can write a song
Heal a scar
Mend the broken
Your thoughts are words
Through intentions you speak
What your third eye sees
Your silence can speak
Mind your thoughts
Mind your words
The past holds clues
Perhaps a different view
History repeats itself
and if we are willing to
silence, listen, feel, touch, see, taste, smell, submerge
we may learn, heal, feel, and emerge
Perhaps a different view
The past holds clues
Nirvana
Tears on my face
They drip and they lace
The many interactions
The many inactions
To save this place
We always race
To destroy and erase
What we cannot replace
Earth
Drip down my cheeks
Pollution slowly creeps
Earth
I take a deep breath
Because I don’t know
When I’ll take my last breath
I only know
Earth
We need it
Escritora. Tejedora de Historias. Tlahuelpuchi. Promotora Artesanal
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Krakatoa Forever My Friend
"kindness is healing, writer & poet of sorts, "
Words of Arte
Come for storytime (stay for pics)
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All is not quiet in the countryside
Poetry, music, creative writing and a desire to inspire....Isaiah 45:2-7 I will go before you and will level the mountains[a]; I will break down gates of bronze and cut through bars of iron. 3 I will give you hidden treasures, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the Lord
Brian Marggraf, Author of Dream Brother: A Novel, Independent publishing advocate, New York City dweller
"And if one day you see the stars disappearing, know only that my heart was amongst them." - My original poem.
what if poems could be symphonies, and people their orchestra?
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The Grind 