Rhymes On A Hiking Hill-Poetry

I want you to understand when I say that I am trying.

I am trying to fulfill my duties to my fellow-man,
while feeling chills through my feet in the beach sand.
Trying to be a clover in an unlucky land.
I am trying, I am.
Whispering words, repeating words
To the listening herd, they flock like birds
When I say I am trying.
Trying to gain control when my good and  bad side
clown around, Playing a game of hare and hounds
Who will beat who first in the game of
racing to mutual grounds?
I am trying, I am.
I say farewell to the sun, and it cries
Always harder to say it’s goodbyes
When it knows it has to take away my shine
But I’ll try,
To replace what’s golden.

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Being Your Kind Of Human

Being Your Kind of Human

With your smiling gaze, you ask for my thoughts.
Although I smiled back I had to look down so you wouldn’t see me answering your question.
My lowered eyes meant nothing more than me being inquisitive
Wondering what could happened if  I gave up on searching for  a meaning of what it was to be your kind of  human
The kind that perceived  false truth in silence
Not seeing that my only mistake is the mistake of doing as humans do.
You create me as if you were my God
and become enraged when you see an error in your sculpture
A perfect representation of the every religions worst quality
Basing my life’s meaning on your distorted views 
But, aren’t I human?
Again being nothing more than inquisitive
Wondering how my ethological presence,
My instinctual will for emotional survival
and my human reactions to life are far too extreme to accept.
I, the human, can create the judgmental surface of indecency
I shouldn’t sigh when I am touched
Shouldn’t cry when I am not,
Since my actions can influence the effect in which the
sun shines or sets.
It seems you’d rather see me blank, nonexistent or
pretend that I thrive with no pain
Because  to you there is no beauty in seeing that I too feel

…Feel that I will never be your kind of human.
and with those thoughts aloud
I was your distroyed art form.

For The One Who Understands.

I see myself as a whispering wind sound
no one can see me going
so I keep going.
Heading to the mecca of my conscience
Blowing away, blending in
with the wind.

Sometimes what you are feeling requires very little words, and may even make zero sense to most. But SOMEONE, somewhere…understands.

 
Goodnight.

The Writer:::

The other shoe dropped.
Like a boulder covered the ant hole
There is a house that is no longer a house
A home where the souls roam alone.
Walking up the basement stairs of  turmoil
I can only do a poets work.
The trade of those with too many minds
The only lay off is to be silenced
The pay can be equal to the richest mans wealth
I’ll express the way a poet dreams 
Wishing words could feed the hungry
Serve them all with a helping of a second coming
Stomaches filled with each  letter
Yearning for another plate when they come across
the last word.
I’d keep them coming, when doing the poets work.
That’s what I’d do.

Flying and Falling

We have all have discovered that we were flying and falling at one point and time in our lives.
It usually happens when we find ourselves floating when we meet an unsuspecting feeling,
while engaging in conversation with an interesting soul,
who takes us soaring up so high our ears begin to pop.
Yep.
That’s that feeling we are all looking for. Flying into skies and falling into love.
The scariest part about flying and falling is when you begin to hit the ground,
you are unsure if you are going to land on pillows or rocks
Pleasure or pain.
The gamble is almost too alarming to risk.
Standing beside you I could feel my feet raising above the ground
and I knew exactly what was happening,
I was beginning to fly.
To others the feeling is exceptional
To me, frightening.