Friday, August 16, 2013

reading is the only cost of living, ya?! this is free.

"what to write what to write.....'i write for the thoughts that never got a second chance and the thoughts that never got a chance or a second.' ugh! no, no, this one! 'peace of mind is what i crave, and pray for. praying for the day my thoughts won't prey on my life and send me to the grave. my body depreciates by the day as my conscious eats away at the little motivation i might have, to move on. so i can't move. now i'm stagnated by the reality of my present state of being and my thoughts won't allow me to think of a better tomorrow because they keep reminding me of my state of being. and what's present in my state of being are empty pockets, and an uncertainty of when change will come. or whether the coming changes will fill these empty pockets, and clear my mind. because clearly i mind having pockets that are filled with emptiness. or being forced to empty my empty pockets for the so-called cost of living that costs the living, a fortune. and then someone boasts that we are fortunate to be living. as if living in itself brings about fortune to the living. and as i live, i can't help but realize how unfortunate i am to just be living. burdened by my thoughts of there's more to life than just breathing. there's more to life than just waking up and going to work and the next day repeat it. and the next day repeat it. an the next repeat it. and the next day?  i want more. and the more that i live the more i want more out of the life that i lead. come on life, let me live! allow me to enjoy the beautiful feeling of peace of mind. or at least be at ease for the time being because being without peace in my mind is killing my whole being. sort of ironic that i'm not only supposed to be fortunate, but also, living.'"

mitishamba ~ peace of art breathing
"i only bow to Her green"

Thursday, August 15, 2013

going Natural

"She arrives.
the amount of knots on Her head leave plenty surprised.
shocked and awed at Her radiance, an empress on the rise whose presence shines only while engaging rebels without disguise.
reality reads of lines aligning Her identity's strands with the source of Her roots or rather, where a fruit dies.
soil must be holding gravity accountable.
or a tree is making water portable.
it could also mean that parity is a must for anything round to remain at par, stable.
arable bedrock with no sand or dust or even dandruff.
its shoots remain round, brown, and spiral.
the pace of forming is related to its farmers' spinal.
a spring texture having a clear indication of internal artwork.
as if soil wanted to keep the reward of a seed to itself, but in a tussle, gives in to the father.
a gentle grower who's in a constant battle with barbers.
loggers deaf to dirt's communication with its kid.
a tree's gratitude in its winds.
hair like wool because earth's memories can't fit straightened strings.
naps galore since, what's a forest without weeds?!
skin shows dirt's fertility green.

She survives.

the amass of clots in Her legs reveal a heave of a ride. chocked hands carve radial distances cropped in circles to press each portrait of those that took her for a temptress who abides. receded blood breeds toughened veins parlaying Her integrity stance amid course routes attempting to unwrap Her hide. Her boys' bust being exploited is a staple. both feet taken by cables. 'twas the engine that could read in the night that carries Her bound load, 'abandoned child on board', drunk on fables. i table writers-block, the weapon in Ishmael's words daring any addition to one sun. probability exists as written proof for a dual, plural, living earths columned to a final. yet space still serves one surface as its master of combing every little observant or as i call it, a soul whose sight is spiral. scripts and texts sculpting bare intimations stirred up by my little darling's heart taps. passive is to coy what waiting is to a story read on a reed busing informed herders. Her mettle alone brings about dance even when somber. losses of sheep can't damper Her continuation of wit. a palm's breeze breeds aptitude complete. protective air strikes fools desiring land's melodies blunted or treated as dim for all to see. tongues galore as after all, do waves not steer only where land hills?! the train that hauls Her child whole, indemnity for protecting its plants from being split."            

Israel Vibration
'there is no end'

" keep it up jah children, living up to your roots, 'cause every tree stay up, by its roots...."

IN Woman I Trust.

Mitishamba ~ hair is the body's plant.
"the green gardener"

Friday, August 9, 2013

when I was seventeen, I wrote.....

"still a common threading the needle" Mitishamba ~ idendefy young

"I work magic with my pen. I write of now and then.
With that I can help ten. With influence it will double.
My pen has then helped double ten out of trouble."

"Good things come to those who wait
How long do I have to wait?
Patience is a virtue
What will it bring me?
Ask and you shall receive
I can ask for anything?
Be careful for what you wish for
A wish can kill me?
The good die young
That is why I can't wait"

"I say not what I think, I think not what I say, a fool is what I am"

"A true soldier battles not with weapons
But with words so wise
provoking the inner cells of a mind
If often this is done
A true soldier, you are one"

How presently I feel
Maya Wegerif

"......both brother and sister let us remember our names so as to remember our way. Because praying to our ancestors is the same as saying God runs through our veins." Maya Wegerif.

IN Woman I Trust.

"for the lady in green"

Thursday, August 8, 2013

Holy Grains, Magna Cartels

"H G M C. Hope Grape Makes Crumbs. In Liberty's grip gripes a slave and slave master's kid lost in the lights lighting its ways while brick-walking through a jungle of grunts. It lacks foresight, deforests in heed of insecure men fronting as farmers but are simply a herded bunch. Directions are a record in Liberty's grasp, the stable woman that doesn't participate in speed rather, movements of water making her turtle each dream - art class shrugged. Shaking off capitalized paths that broaden starts, turning finished lines into narrowed tracks recording every last verse crunched. Tardy arrivals means the turtle's eye lashing is the last brush that alters the painting of the tip of a pyramid into an hour glass, parched. Granule storage bins make rabbit senses hyperactive and turn into a flurry of activities as if urgency made planting and seasons match. The perched bird watches these comedic routines recorded as passageways but only lead to obsolete stilts that a shelled animal picks up as its harvest cane in the nick of heat, weather graphed. Dried grains protected from being emptied by those of a haste to prose, reproductive tales, so these stanzas are that plug for the sturdy lady's bird catch. Guarded harvests starves thieves revealing cravings of some somewhat odd things such as an adoption of identities written on a graveyard's thumbs. The ruler of all things equal, she drinks from the only cup that gives up its half so as plants can bear fruit free to maneuver through cracks and see what all grounds have to offer when given her drums.

Mitishamba ~ she keeps her sand glassed in sleeves
"deserted green garden"