This was how my first ever hearing seems as. Having been shamed of my voice, since when I was a kid. I couldn't have the effrontery to sing out loud again So I prefer singing alone to my hearing Until I found solace in the strings of organs
Not until I took the #first_step# to my very first hearing And ever since then, it has always been amazing
*We shouldn't let anyone shame us of our talent, but we should work on ourselves and give them a better version of who we are and what we are about to do* #proudly_singer#.
It's been a long way, without miraquill already Hope am welcomed back to the street of words back again I just had to drop it, I miss you guys
A worse ailment that drains and kill like a pint gradually It runs faster and sting down to create a chaos Leaving a cruel and mundane memory Rocking of like a lullbay just as a cold shrill voice accompanys it A long last freedom is what they waited for, does it really exist As I made way back to the cuddle the syndrome of my fear.
THIRTEEN SEASONS OF MY METAPHORS : TERMS AND CONDITIONS MAY APPLY
Sometimes you feel like a clear sky where the virgin clouds meander gently while tasting the concord grapes of nature and naivety. But i, a caged bird, far away from the lapland and liaison with a bowl of safflower seeds and dead mealworms but crave to kiss your lips on a summer day.
Sometimes you feel like a home where humans are always being welcomed by the curtains, doormats, flower vases, room lamps, mirrors and armchairs with a bouquet of chrysanthemums and mayflowers. But i, a rotten corpse, from the graveyard of your megalopolis, can't be greeted to the home.
Sometimes you feel like a Shakespearean sonnet where the three quatrains festoon the bare body of autumn and the couplet is adorned as an anklet. But i, a blank verse with the taste of sour tangerines, embraced by the autumn, but covered with the crunchy leaves of September without waving its hands to the syllables.
Sometimes you feel like a cornbread made up of flour, butter, milk, eggs and sugar ; served on a richly decorated tray with a fork and knife. But i, a tablespoon, dangling from the spoon holder of someone's kitchen, neither needed by you nor abutted by your fingers.
Sometimes you feel like a lovestory of Mark Antony and Cleopatra, scribbled by an English playwright William Shakespeare, praiseworthy and pulchritudinous. But i, a mannequin from a department store, covered by a wig on my head to hide my baldness and a electric blue floral embroidered gown on my body. You and i, two lines of same universe, neither parallel nor intersected, far away from each other, different, divergent and like chalk & cheese.
//I'm not asking to be your cloud, neither i want to be your syllable nor i want to be the Cleopatra of your play, but let's meet someday ; i want to steal metaphors for my next poetries, they're becoming untenanted now-a-days//
I am not asking how many items are on your to-do list, nor asking how many items are in your inbox. I want to know how your heart is doing, at this very moment. Tell me. Tell me your heart is joyous, tell me your heart is aching, tell me your heart is sad, tell me your heart craves a human touch. Examine your own heart, explore your soul, and then tell me something about your heart and your soul.
– Omid Safi
--Today, write a poem or prose starting with the phrase "I am not asking"--
~First love always alive and lives all the time in your heart. How much you try to forget it never goes away from your heart. It's always something special~ ________________________________________________
Date : 3/12/2021 09:41 PM Lat,Long : 11.706,78.416 ________________________________________________
Perhaps, forgiveness is a spiritual way in which we care for ourselves. It protects us from the pain of bitterness, disdain, and apathy... We are made to love, and when something blocks that flow of love, we are usually the ones who suffer the most.