Home→Forums→Share Your Truth→playing with fire – a poem
- This topic has 34 replies, 6 voices, and was last updated 7 years, 2 months ago by Anonymous.
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September 4, 2017 at 8:42 am #166862AnonymousGuest
Dear Joe:
The ghosts from the past: some of them live with us (your dad handing you the phone), some of them ring the house phone (this person, most recently), and many still speak to us in between their reappearances in our lives, we hear their voices, their messages in our brains.
It sure helps to physically get away from the physical ghosts from the past, it helps with the healing from their harmful messages, a process we might take on. If we don’t heal, we will keep hearing their messages, imagine others are repeating their messages when they are not (inaccurate projections) or hear those messages replayed in our brains as our thoughts drift.
anita
September 6, 2017 at 12:51 pm #167432HopefaithParticipantI read the thread your poems are great but one thing which annoys me is that why why why why and whhhhhhhyyyyyy people think men who cook or do sent like sports or action movies are not men enough it makes me so angry with this ideology how can you judge a man based on his likes I know some great men who are great cook or very sensitive or who don’t like sports and they are many enough……pathetic….
September 6, 2017 at 2:42 pm #167476PatrickParticipantDear Hopefaith,
People perceive things differently. That’s just how it is. Some people find that manly, others do not.
Personally, I completely agree that a man who can embrace the latent feminine part of himself with confidence and strength is more manly than one who is afraid of being seen as less than masculine. Like cooking or doing facials with his partner or is into yoga (which is totally not even a feminine practice but western minds think it’s silly).
September 26, 2017 at 7:58 am #170337JoeParticipant“Gift”
who would have thought
that which you
curse me with
who would have thought
that you
stifling my every word
silencing me
speaking for me
who would have thought
that all along
you were giving me
you were teaching me
my greatest gift
my greatest lesson
and though
i’ve lost my way a few times
i realised
that the silence
you condemn me with
is the greatest power
at my arsenal
at my disposal
there are
lots of things
i want to say,
i could say
given the chance
but i’ve decided
not to
i will just sit back
like the quiet child
you think i am
you can talk
as much as you like
because
i am not in competition
with you anymore
you can say your precious words
if that’s what you want
you can decide
decipher
assume
all you like
because you will never know
you can try
to provoke a reaction
to worm your way in
so arrogant
to assume that
you think
you can speak the truth of another
you can speak the truth for another
i will just smile
because you will never know
you can be caught up
in your illusion
in your delusion
you can point fingers
you can tell your version of events
but all i will do
is look at the one
who points the fingers
i lusted for revenge
to get even
to speak uninterrupted
to let you know
to expose you
but you can expose yourself
maybe i knew
all along
that to speak
that to talk
that to idle chit-chat
is to give away
your power
and my power
is not your’s for the taking
without further ado
i bid you adieu
i wish nothing more
than the best for you
i wish
that you get all of the good things
that one can get in this life
but
the only thing you will never have
are my words
my songs
my power
my truth
my attention
my thoughts
my energy
my soul
you can keep all the ugly rotten ones
that you’ve already got.- This reply was modified 7 years, 2 months ago by Joe.
September 26, 2017 at 10:24 am #170411AnonymousGuestDear Joe:
A pleasure to read one more of your poems. You sure have a way with words, skillful, talented, a delight to hear in my mind’s ear, as I read it. You wrote about revenge before and I like this revenge:
“the only thing you will never have
are my words
my songs
my power
my truth
my attention
my thoughts
my energy
my soul”-It felt empowering to me, reading this.
anita
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