Dies the Soul

What kills the soul?

Can we kill our soul?

Can we cause our soul to accept a fate that can be prevented by disturbing the quiet?

Self loathing; wallowing in our despair; holding inside our anger and grief; all the right ways to kill your soul. Your soul is meant to be free. To vocalize it’s presence through actions and words. Communication is the only thing I know that can heal, strengthen and revive a soul.

Write, talk, sing, or cry. Don’t let your silence kill your soul.

—

Dies the Soul

In the stillness of the quiet

The soul screams loudest

From its prison echoes cries

Calling to that which was lost

Chained to stone, so cold

Stealing the warmth, once held

Rusted locks break all keys

No escaping, no ears for pleas

Tortured soul, all alone

Imprisoned internally by self

Thoughts never spoken

Words never heard

In the stillness of the quiet

Dies the soul

–30–

Phillip @the_traveling_poet

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Ebony and Ivory

It’s funny what triggers poetry in my mind. I was listening to piano instrumental music and allowed my mind to free itself of the “stress” it felt at that time. Then, my mind began to wander to you. If this poem somehow touches you, then yes, I was thinking about you.

I hope you enjoy it.

Ebony and Ivory

What’s it about

Ebony and Ivory

So majestical together

Fingers lightly stroking

Pulling me into their song

In the rhythm of their tone

I become lost, yet again

Drifting to you, my music

The notes you played

Lasting within my heart

Resonating along my nerves

Like well tuned strings

Holding on to hope

To hear it played

Over and over

Your fingers

On me

–30–

Phillip

@the_traveling_poet

The River

During a past trip to Limerick, Ireland, I witnessed an event like this along the Shannon River. I didn’t ask or ever find out what the whole story was, but I search the newsfeeds for the area and it was only stated someone entered the river at that location. Further research showed that many people take their own lives along that shore. It made me think how heartbreak can feel like this. Remember that no matter the sorrow and pain, there is always someone willing to help you take the steps to healing.

Daily I see and hear things that trigger my poetry. Some is good. Some is bad. But all in all, I am glad to feel and write.

—

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This Fucking World

A rant about my world. 

This Fucking World

.

This Fucking World

Is screwing my head

It builds up anticipation

Then soon turns to dread

This Fucking World

Bares me to the ground

It’s all about money

There’s none to be found

This Fucking World

Has temptations galore

It keeps us fighting

We always want more

This Fucking World

It’s where I live

It’s always taking

I always give

This Fucking World

It’s where I will die

But at least I can say

Fuck it, I did try

Ink Blotches

Black ink blotches

Paper white

Lines conforming

Words tight

Wishes whispered

Thoughts thought

Hearts raptured

Souls caught

Teardrops flow

Through the pen

What was

Could have been

Laughter squiggles

Form a joke

A silly gal

Crazy bloke

Without words

There’d be no joy

Without the girl

There’d be no boy 

This Fucking World

By the title you can see explicit language warning is in effect. 

I’m working on some “slam/spoken word poetry”

To maybe one day get the guts to stand up and read at an open mic night somewhere. 

This following was a random thought that cured the other night. 

I welcome critique. 

This Fucking World
This Fucking World

Is screwing my head

It builds up anticipation

Then soon turns to dread

This Fucking World

Bares me to the ground

It’s all about money

There’s none to be found

This Fucking World

Has temptations galore

It keeps us fighting

We always want more

This Fucking World

It’s where I live

It’s always taking

I always give

This Fucking World

It’s where I will die

But at least I can say

Fuck it, I did try

Neverland

I watched the movie “Finding Neverland” last night and the thoughts of that kind of fun and never changing place is both inspiring and scary. This was the result on my brain. 

Rain

Camping this weekend alone, I sat listening to the rain. All those individual drops coming together to make something bigger, together. 

Remember – Memorial Day

I instagramed these, and forgot to post here. Being former military I am grateful my sons don’t have to honor me on Memorial Day. If more people would meditate on the meaning of the day and less on BOGO sales and cookouts we might be in better shape as a country. 

Vacancy