Inspirational Hope Life Simple Deep


What if I were to tell you, that I'm tired and broken,
In my soul,
And yet...I can fix nothing alone.
So...all I can do is cry.

Scarred from personal trials and tribulations,
But mostly...from the state of the world.
And yet...I can fix nothing alone.
So...all I can do is cry.

The pain of knowing that the flora, fauna and animals,
Which are treated with such indifference and cruelty,
And yet...I can fix nothing alone.
So...all I can do is cry.

I see the treatment of the underprivaledged and starving peoples of the world,
Who only get help when it suits a country or an organizations adgenda,
And yet...I can fix nothing alone.
So...all I can do is cry.

With every new story or news event I hear,
Which pushes my faith in man further away,
And yet...I can fix nothing alone.
So...all I can do is cry.

When I hear of the good people...who tried to make a difference,
Murdered...silenced...given no respect, just because they want peace for the world and for the health of the planet,
And yet...I can fix nothing alone.
So...all I can do is cry.

The religions who preach peace and love for your fellow it friend or enemy,
Reduced to hollow words, that make them feel justified...for the actions they take,
And yet...I can fix nothing alone.
So...all I can do is cry.

I know I'm not the only one broken, in their heart, in their mind and in their soul,
Each of us...tearful with the unheard music of hope, reason and empathy,
Yet...I think if we all globally stood up and said why we are broken, then maybe...just maybe, we could fix something.
So...all I can do is smile at the thought of it.

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Life Is Beautiful

Very rarely in life do you come across beauty that just simply knocks you off your feet.
from being a sexual attraction, I destination, or simply just the words from a stranger.
but these interactions come at the most unpredictable times. yet also at the perfect time.
these sensual epiphany's can in moments time change your whole prospective of living
they come in all shapes and sizes, colors and wavelengths.
even an atheist cant argue that they are meant to find you at your most appropriate time
and I witnessed one of mine. And, I must say for right now. Life is beautiful.

The wise wooden bookshelf

I remember how enthusiastic he gets whenever he wants to read a book, and how his eyes open wide whenever he sees such the simple rectangular shape of the book. If I were his sense of smell, I would swear that I would like the smell of old books. If I were his sense of sight, I would affirm that I would like any shadow of any book projected on the table. He tells me with a smile on his face that he has loved books and knowledge since he was a kid. He studied and read on the roof of his house every afternoon until a faint ray of light announced the arrival of the moon and nighttime. He doesn’t like to throw out his books. Instead he keeps them on the bookshelf in order to have them protected like a pearl inside its shell. Whenever he wants to read something, he goes directly to the bookshelf, and because he knows how the books are put in order he doesn’t spend a lot of time searching. I observe his behavior when he’s near the presence of the books, and he seems to be happy in the moment he opens them. Hundreds of small letters written on white paper and elaborated drawings every second page he understands and knows as if they were very old friends. He orders his books according to their size and thickness, but he never orders them according to the color of the cover. At home and in his office, not only are his bookshelfs always full of papers, documents and books, but he also keeps CD’s there of his favorite music. He loves to show me everything he has there, as if to explain to me that if someday I want to see something about his life, I can find almost everything there I want to know. I remember him reading books in front of his bookshelf for hours, and it seemed that his only moments of distraction were when he stood up from his chair to find another book on the bookshelf. He takes care of it as if it was trunk filled with treasures, so he tries to check that every book is placed there, cleaned and organized. My father also takes care of it as if it was a time machine that transports him to the past of what he has read and that will transport him to the future of what he will learn. This wooden shell of a bookshelf will show us my father’s memories and pieces of his whole life written on paper. My father loves books.

Iris of Poetry


Introduction: We don't really think deep enough about 'What A Poetry Actually Is', the obvious question which we all know but don't think how to really elaborate on. We mostly see the story, depth and the purpose it delivers. Well, here's one a little bit different this time...

Poetry is the reflection of our lives like in the mirror,
It is something we can relate to and share.
It's our memories written in jumbled words,
It's like a song, with a meaning it holds.

A mere idea of our mystical lives,
Expressed in a way from deep inside
A way which only the heart can see,
A place where the eyes get cold-feet

The earnest truth and the sweetest lies,
It's all the irony that makes poetry so alive.

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