POETRY, RANDOM THOUGHTS AND STUFF LIKE THAT….
WHO ARE YOU??
USE METAPHORS…
I am a spine filled ghetto
With intellectual notes
That gets stuck in my throat
Mid way down the words become my cloak
I claim not my thorn
I am a womanly girl
With Bobbie sox and Shirley temple curls
That pushes me to the masses
That’s right!
My thorn pushes me to the masses
And its mines!
And can’t nobody tell me about my spirit
That sees deep into those judgmental eyes
Delving in the crevices of my head looking for buried treasure
The Journal of an Active Learner
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Nurturing creativity with art, animals, and science fiction
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Fotografias e palavras percorrem o mundo de mãos dadas.
The Lord gave the word; great was the company of those who proclaimed it. Psalm 68:11
a blog about retirement and reinvention
short fiction writer * PUSH Community leader
Possibility of impossibility
I have a hyperactive imagination.Welcome to my world. You can get here by way of Astoria Blvd.,Sunrise Hwy or Wyoming Avenue~
ACTON28: AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC
mentalnotes1 
Guerrilla drifts the wind in stealth, between the emerald words, these kin to lines they run ink their rivers, through the shallows deep upon each page, curling at the earth pressed edges, sharing beneath each branches approach, birds of paradise, inked in words of colour, Guerrilla drifts the wind in stealth… Read your above poem a few days ago while on lunch at work, but was not able to log in to comment, the above thoughts are what found some paper in the moment
AWE THANKS FOR COMMENTING AS USUAL (: FIRST WORD “Guerrilla” I WAS INTERESTED, I LOVE ANYTHING ROUGH AND TOUGH, ALTHOUGH ROUGH AND TOUGH MAY NOT HAVE BEEN THE INTENT,THE WORD ALONE INTRIGUED ME. I HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE WITH THE SHOW NOT TELL CONCEPT OF POETERY.
THANKS DEAR (:
It’s not about rough and tough, Guerrilla here is about the stealth of a wind passing through a forest. It is always there, but one will not notice it to touch until crossing, or passing along one of its many changing pathways, to catch unaware till in the moment. As often you’ll hear and listen to the wind in the forest, high above, or at some distance between the tress fern, and undergrowth. To touch it, the wind in a forest, here is when everything around is most alive, one can hear its cousin, water, coursing through her veins, coursing through the forest, as if spoken ink upon a page,,,,
You know something, I’ve just realised I may of dropped the initial word play comment on the wrong post of yours, or has the image changed, (I had a few open at the time) I think kept going on a tangent with the second reply too. I think I was just contemplating at the time how a wind can find one in a forest, and then be gone again in moments. Maybe that’s too much thinking.