My Glasses

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My glasses sit on the tip of my nose
I can’t tell they’re there but my eyes see through them

Sometimes they are colored rose
and the world looks great
Sometimes they are filled with smoke
and all around is bleak

My glasses sit on the tip of my nose
but because I can’t see them
I’m not sure which colors it is I see through

Sometimes I color my glasses myself
my ideas my thoughts my needs
Sometimes they color themselves
my genes my past
Sometimes my feelings
color with pieces of all

My glasses sit on the tip of my nose
sometimes I wonder what I’d see without them

I Search

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I search for me
see in mirror an image
but wonder if I’m there

I search for me
watch what things I do
by my will and sometimes by some other
and wonder if I’m there

I search for me
hear what things I say
by my will and sometimes by some other
and wonder if I’m there

I search for me
recall memory of was
am confronted by for now
and wonder if I’m there

I peer deep inside
hear what cries for release
and wonder…

and wonder

Waiting Is Very Smart

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Waiting is very smart
it knows why the phone is not ringing
or the letter is unanswered
why the opportunity has not come
what the other really thinks
And it screams all these things it knows

Waiting is very smart
it knows it’s only in the waiting
it can have its way
turn what really is into whatever feeds fear most
So it now screams all these things it knows

Waiting is very smart
because some call will come
some words be sent
some path be found
some understanding arise

Then fog fades
and a thing visible appears
and it is too late for its waiting then
too late for its screams

After the waiting
then fears fed turn into what really is
often full of enormous hard
but now know is the hand to play

Waiting is very smart
and sometimes sneaky too
For the sometimes it appears (appears) it knew all along
it claims a next time right to scream louder still

Waiting knows a thing visible
no matter how hard
presents a tangible to be confronted
but that waiting presents ungraspable fog

It’s hard to figure out how to deal with waiting
its fog its guesses its darkest supposes
Waiting knows how hard waiting is
and it can wait a long time
it’s smart that way

I Am Not I Am

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“On those stepping into rivers staying the same other and other waters flow…we are and are not.”
-Heraclitus

What chasm between I now and that before
such hard forced changes to escape and leave before behind
Yet who stands here now but I
can before ever be not still now

In trepidation and judgement
I glance to see what’s here
Even overcome
how can a distant past be far enough away

Memory haunts
memory claims
Memory claims what in memory now
is now also in person still

But how can it be a way any else
how can a coming here
be not a coming from somewhere

It is all change
and all is become one

Self that was that is
self that is that was
Self that is self
Who that was or is
I am not I am

Not The Stops

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The stops along the way
are sometimes those envisioned
And often so far below
But the journey is not the stops

The stops along the way
shine glorious when working
And demand they be never a way any else
But the journey is not the stops

The stops along the way
bring darkness on all when failing
And demand they be never ever that way again
But the journey is not the stops

The journey is the journey
Your strength is for the taking it itself
The journey is the journey
not the stops along the way

The Path Missed

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This was to lead to thus
and thus to that
and That was the place
which had to be reached

But during this
was the diverting over there
And getting closer to thus
was missed the other no longer there

That which had to be
was then lost
and with that missed path
hope lost overwhelmed

The path instead taken
with lowered head and muted heart
for being the way not chosen
remained so long clouded and unseen

Clouded for eyes closed
as being not That first conceived
So long was that actually offered
passed by

That first place
which thought demanded
had no equal no replacement
by choice or not
became this place, this path that is now

This path that is now
if but closed eyes be opened
so clouds be lifted
so a path could be seen
not to be missed at all

Regret Is A Choice

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A lifetime of in the moments
that can hardly be borne
How could that been done
why the consequence not seen

One mistake then the next
if could only be undone
So many choices
if only the chance, to be chosen again

Then torment rains
the critiques from within
forgiveness undeserved
for all these things done

No wait

Regret is found only in regret
only in one choosing
to try
with what past learned

Faulty paths taken by all
unavoidable by none
Regret is the Choice Made
on the turn to next

Informed by before
a call to the next
Regret is a choice
a turning from same

In between before and after
regret just the feeling on the way
Regret sees the past
and calls to the next

This path on the way
hindered not by errors come before
but by withholding forgiveness now
Regret already be a path new chosen
Regret is a choice
Regret deserves forgiveness
…yours

Denial To Confirmation

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Confirm. give new assurance of the validity of; remove doubt about by authoritative act or indisputable fact
-Merriam-Webster

Your truth got no air time
It was not sexy
It had no sizzle
It was only truth

Among the greatest in history
you find ideas your own
If even in other words, still yours as well
Denied that world you saw
it’s air to breath
Given the air of this world
You died, a part

But you did survive
if less whole
Still it is you
reading this
You survived to find
That world exists
the one you knew, know
the one of which you are part

In this world, the pain remains
the pain is not removed
Only the denial of you
you are confirmed

Self that controls not

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“If the body were the self…it would be possible (to say)…’Let my body be thus. Let my body not be thus’…If consciousness were the self…it would be possible (to say)…’Let my consciousness be thus. Let my consciousness not be thus.”
-Siddhartha Gautama

A very complex and discussed passage
But its simple observation
quite astounding
The self that controls not the self

Astounding…

The rage that burns
and drives my hand to strike
my mouth to speak
The mind that would control
and hold my hand
speak not the words

The pain that arrests
and drives my limbs to fail
my muscles to weakness
The mind that would control
and ignore the hurt of limbs
overcome the weakness

The sadness that torments
and drives my whole being to tears
my weakened body to despair
The mind that would control
and talk away tears
think away  despair

The thoughts in my head
that drive me to belief
and send body into action
The mind that would control
and question from where come these thoughts
would ask whether actions justified

Passion, Pain, Emotion, Thought
so often make their claim and have their way
And these things then seen from outside
come so to define me
Yet they come not of choice
What of self
does self control

Looking outside from in

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In the middle of the storm
when all is falling
hope abandons
and fear consumes

In the middle of the storm
what was seen from outside
the learning, the wisdom, the calm
is gone to disbelief

In the middle of the storm
hope abandones and fear consumes

But the view from outside
the learning, the wisdom, the calm
when in the middle of the storm
are no less true

How can belief be clinged
how can memory have power
In the middle of the storm
to know the outside from in