debbistation of state

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"Time"

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
Fritter and waste the hours in an off-hand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way, but you’re older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I’d something more to say

Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
When I come home cold and tired
It’s good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away, across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spell

This, a wonderfully happy sad song.  But immaculate all the same.

Filed under classicrock literature epic time gettingolder

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“To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles…”

And indeed, that IS the question: whether to float with the tide, or to swim for a goal. It is a choice we must all make consciously or unconsciously at one time in our lives. So few people understand this! Think of any decision you’ve ever made which had a bearing on your future: I may be wrong, but I don’t see how it could have been anything but a choice however indirect — between the two things I’ve mentioned: the floating or the swimming.”

This is exactly what I am going through right now… I feel a hundred times better seeing homeboy’s quote…

#beingpoinamerica

Filed under beingpoinamerica literature thetruth greatauthors life writing writers

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THE DAY SHE DIED

The Day She Died   (not to be mistaken with the upcoming, the day she dies)

I Lost my way on purpose to reach the distance so far away

Into a different state beyond desire and further,

Opening a peaceful language called comprehension 

Enabling a right of passage through the threshold 

Into Enchantment 

the other world 

Where we belong all ego, alter-ego, and labido

My archetype, identity of sacred scene,

this scene does not include powerlessness 

despising fear in elimination

A dominant figurehead as I reach into the dead monuments 

that represents what I was 

a weakness that needed death to come and take what birth had built

My opportunity to be “Alive” “Alive” “Alive”

The essence existence:

What hurts my core and soul to its core, of one’s first birth

The beauty sent a type of strength

Untouchable, invulnerable

refining our right to toward guarding our eternal function

to make and send the separate being, birth 

sufficient search 

of why I just cannot attempt to know

the reason why, I must not have had a choice

and as that may entice 

what cannot seen its shadow sent forth

a suffered life

Conceived and then just left alone

along on its way

a path insighting what it seems 

to impact as the form shaping wrath

My true job here is to reveal 

the release of truth

summoning what is honesty 

so deep a body, overflowing with waters

drowning my place to be the experience 

of suffered intake so drenched in pain

seeking myself my findings throughout my profound effects 

which causes sickness

Infected hurt that is always precise 

on its way as it arrives on time 

whatever shift may strike me with

How what they taught to believe was me 

Captured kept any efforts to free my chance

fought by kindred’s faithful loyalty 

to paying the fee of responsibility 

killing me with humanity

and the beauty, forcing me to stay alive 

despite how close I might have died

The power of what is a Mother 

forced me to face the world in struggle 

battling how to see a gift called power

made from intricately shaped matter

matter being our very sense of knowing how to tell

we somehow form a divinity

being capacitated to 

orchestrate what is known as living

I cannot know why it hurts to touch the unity

so determined to take its members

that were conceived and destined to beat a final fight

Always being a test put forth

to see if any life can bare its being

I made it fine, my bloodline healed fine

and gave Earth to meeting me and becoming mine]

so shocked I cannot know how my own kind 

are blessing me into creating

this concern of mine

pondering how I might have almost not seen my love for those 

who make up my very self and show me how:

Love compels any scene 

to find just how it may succumb

A sickly birth

And that is how I came to be right here on Earth

WELCOME TO MY REBIRTH.

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DO NOT DUPLICATE WITHOUT CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR 

©All rights reserved to Deborah Godinez 2003©

COPYRIGHTS

DO NOT DUPLICATE WITHOUT CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR 

©All rights reserved to Deborah Godinez 2003©

Filed under poetry literature creative writing heroes