Reflection on a Haiku

Sadness
Is not
Like a poison
I believe
It is more
A bitter bitter fruit
That must
Be eaten for
The necessary nourishment
It provides....

Shared sadness is enriching and proof we are possessed of hearts.

Prophet's Profit?

No Peace/No profit #1

It never,

Is the prophets,

Who,

From their altruism,

Profits,

I doubt,

That any,

Of the many,

True prophets of,

Humanity,

Ever had,

As,

Their primary,

Motivation,

The acquisition of,

Power,

For just the sake of power.

An old Poem rediscovered.

So many beautiful pieces.
I believe the heart of a poet is lit,
By the heat of the sun on one side,
And the other cooled by the moon,
And poetry is,
What comes from their soul,
As they slowly freeze/cook,
Over and over and over,
Again.

peace

A Responce to Gulnaz

Some folks,
Hold fast to,
Their pain,
Like,
It's a blanket.

Sore comfort,
That harsh fabric,
Covering ones eyes,
With only,
The bad things,
Mad things,
And hurt.

There is too much anger/hate/fear in humanity and I fear it bodes ill for the future.
peace

Blogging

I have noticed as I am sure you have that blogging has lost a bit of it's creative magnetism.
I attribute it to the popularity of Facebook, Twitter, and the other social network systems.
I don't believe though that they can truly offer the kind of audience that a blog can, not so much in numbers but in interest.
Take for example our friend illyria and that site. We do not go to that site to read about that person's last bowel movement, we go to that site to read that which has been created, in short "Art."
I am on FB but it does not give me the satisfaction that blogging does and I dont put into my blog when I last got drunk or whether the show that featured Ozzie losing his voice. By all means FB and Tweet, but don't forget where your Art is. :)
peace out!
And if you can't peace out then PISS OFF! :)

Words

Work work work.....
God I hate working for my dreams by way of prostituting myself to another's.
Most of my time is spent laboring for their dreams and what little time is left for me I can barely afford to spend what remains of the ink of my imagination I can barely see the paper upon which I so desire to journey.
There is in this world a missing part I dont know if it is a wheel, a cog, a lever, a hidden micro switch, or an ancient string of words from a dead language I just know that it is missing and without we are lost to live lives of many dull monochrome moments with a few fragments of bright and shiny to taunt us.
If I find that missing part would you my dearest friends clear a path to the place it belongs.

Self examination

I was just sitting here looking over my scribbling and noticed that I rarely write something that is not a reflection of someonelse's writing, someone's writing from out here in the electroverse.
Is this OK?
OK Owen Wilson that was a classroom reading.
Trans-Illyria
Gulnaz
Cocaine Jesus
Ruksak
Misti
... etc
Aw well have a great day!