Life is a drawing

“Life is drawing without an eraser.” – James Gardner.

One of my favorite quotes.

I like to think that even the worst drawings take on a brighter cheerful look when we color them up.

I make my grand kids show me every drawing they make & enjoy making them color them up afterwards, sometimes so long later. It’s always a whole new painting after they’re done with it.

Morale here is what ever mistakes or bad decisions we made in like, we always have the opportunity to change it, alter it, or make it better afterwards.

It could be just a change it attitude or behavior, or simply a sorry.

I respect personal opinions or misgivings over old painful experience because I don’t know what particular personal experiences people draw

But if you get being optimistic in our dreams & aspirations then you ought to see that being optimistic in our acceptance of what directions our past had put us on is quite similar.

TEMPERAMENTS OF THE SEASONS

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It must be the first, like the light;
Sunny rising summer, all so bright.
The height of the moods pick its reign
When the temperament is sanguine.
The confidence predominates over all,
Its bloodied florid hopelessness stands tall.

Then in that order sets in depreciation;
With bare windy Autumn’s desperation.
A sluggish retrogressive mood, so apathetic;
Displays the temperament as phlegmatic.
The unexcitable disposition throws up its palms;
Receive unemotional bleakness that never calms.

With the mood at its least hopeful state,
Gloomy winter’s horizons hide living fate.
The sad presentation of it is so symbolic,
Revealing a temperament so melancholic.
Its mournful dejected air doesn’t let out
That around the corner linger what its about.

Its about life going on, resurfacing yet again;
Like spring returns to mellow out the pain.
The tasty fruits of a weather so irascible,
Its passionate choleric temperament is unstable.
Speaks volumes of man being never mature
And how he resembles the seasons in nature.

the poet in the poet
The poet in the poem
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FIRST PAIN

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When I felt it happen too;
Like I heard and saw it too.
I died that day that I knew;
I was just me and not new.
Then alive I sprout out again;
Living as all do, after their first pain.

the poet in the poet

WHERE’S MY WOMAN?

Happily Wedded
Think the old fashion African man, very present today on his continent and beyond it. He is steadfast with his dreams of being the master of culture, woman, beast and land, still wrestling with his aimless hopes of always being in-charge; more so when it concerns his defiant woman’s hopes.

Her emotion are singled out, his wishes isolated, little hope for both as her hairs style speaks her preference and everyday she’s a lighter brown.

Emptiness in smiles reveal their hearts create vacancies. 

Her eyes speak her hidden fears, yet she weeps not. Her pride and knowledge rises as their old ride is almost at existence’s verge. He wants what is not given, so much that it hurts a lot. Their affection is true but their marriage is not. There is rage, they feel caged in by the ruse of their time. 

She is too modern for him. She is there beside him but he is not really standing with her, claiming as he does, to be her dedicated man.

His attitude mails nothing she sees, that shows he shares her dream to be free of his control and his peer, not his subordinate.

And he? He wonders where is she, the woman he owns by right?

With the dreams of many
Mine wrestled so bravely.
Amidst hopes so sunny,
They tussle aimlessly.

She stood aside alone
With hands akimbo.
Beckoning even a stone,
A sight commanding a bow.

Humming emotional tunes;
Singled out, isolated wishes.
All engulfed in fumes,
Little hope for securing stitches.

Her hairs say her preference;
Tailing behind as Medusa’s crown.
Her aim in her appearance
As everyday she’s a lighter brown.

The immorality in fantasies,
The emptiness in smiles
As hearts create vacancies;
Hopes dumped in closed files.

It’s bottled up inside her;
The pain of another way.
She is sincere and only prefer,
That’s all she ever will say.

In those eyes that speak
Darkness glows from hidden fears.
The wait’s companion at its peak,
Yet she wouldn’t let the tears.

From mountains of selfish pride
Falls many years of knowledge
And it’s all been only a ride
That’s almost at existence’s verge.

Wanting what’s not given
So much that it hurts a lot.
Shy but ever once beaten,
It’s in these fears we’re caught.

So short ago the smiles spoke,
Or so I thought in my indifference.
Hearts appeared immune to a poke,
Like empty bags in conference.

The affection wasn’t a mirage,
Probably the marriage was.
But the rage in this cage;
Experience defeatingly shall pass.

She isn’t standing with me,
Claiming as I do, to be the man.
Her attitude mails nothing I see,
Then where is she, the woman?

THIS FEAR OF JOY

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Bleeding trees don’t all die.
Into our lives a lot will pry.

The driest seed will germinate,
Its pains would compensate.

All leaves die, dry and fall,
Surely will those today so tall.

The little shoots rises we know,
So will all small people grow.

Every growing bud has its own day,
Eluding this fear of joy is our way.

We tend to go through life thinking we have the most problems. 
It is after all a big part of living to have some trouble and difficulties, isn’t it?

But with the hardship, we mostly have the means to overcome them.

Isn’t it odd, it turns out that those with the most trials end up making the most of their situation and become remarkable successes?

For some reason their difficulties equip them and the rewards of their resilience sorts of compensates for all their many pains.

As surely as time passes by, all of existence will end and so will we all. Every bit of life will end.

The mighty shall become small and the little will grow big and burst, like an inflated balloon.

Every barely visible piece can have its moment in the sun and grow into a big entity, to be noticed by everything else some day.

But this will only happen if we let it. If we let ourselves have those moments of considerable joy…..

And the secret is? 
Letting go of one’s fear of failing.

“Eluding this fear of joy is our way”

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SUICIDE

BwkEnHkIEAAyieh
From where comes all this dew,
Delighting thoughts with to chew.

Soothing pressures that boo,
But sound frightfully so lewd.

I grabbed the wind horn I blew,
For I alone do hear it so true.

A loss I think I’ll cause you,
The pains might escape a few.

My swift scheme hardly new,
Like good cheats daring who.

Life is the full pot of new stew
Emotional foot found with its shoe.

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