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With pointless joys and sorrows to a beat, the city has a music all its own. The vast machinery that comes to play booms abrasively in metal zones. Giant shovels make the earth give way, cars and trucks and taxis have their say. The howl and honking of their churlish tones —savage trumpets—blare and shake the day. The city has a music all its own. Troubled voices blend into the mix with darting eyes and secrets made of stone.
They stagger alleyways and chase their fix.
- Vast Corridors;
- The Call to Follow Jesus (The New Inductive Study Series).
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- Spoken Word/Poetry – The Mind of James.
Negotiations made by desperate tricks, midnight windows cracked, they hush and moan. These wicked whispers echo off the bricks, the city has a music all its own. Angry sirens shriek their lullabies, but somewhere in this terminal reprise some hopeful vessels made of prayer and bone are singing out their dreams to careless skies. Send word to the heartbroken call them over, every one spread out through the forests and let the search dogs run. Look through bloody city streets and growing prison lines peruse the gated suburbs that have fastened all their blinds.
Call the police and the soldiers send a fleet of dragging boats read through all of the graffiti for potential ransom notes. I watched the television news and one station had said that it was still alive and well the other, that it was dead.
So let the helicopter lights circle on and on as the mournful wonder where America has gone. Heart Surgery. I lay it in the center of the room upon a wooden table streaked with stains.
From here I see, quip-quopping in its way unevenly, it glistens in the light. Pacing round the table casually, into the quiet room the faceless stir with pointed fingers or a chin in hand they watch and scrutinize and then confer. One wonders if the little thing might bounce, another picks it up and checks the weight.
- To see me as a yellow garden..
- The Old Man in the Bag and Other True Stories of Good Intentions (Consocratic Theory Book 2).
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One squeezes it and holds it to her ear and like a Christmas gift gives it a shake. Another pokes it with a grimaced look and then he leans in close enough to smell and promptly wipes his hand upon his jeans. I pulled up my boot straps long ago and made decisions to leave it all up to my maker. Fabric of a Woman.
Emotional Slam Poetry & Spoken Word Poems
Do you think they change my value, think they change my worth. My thread count supersedes that of any other in existence. Build a tent of me and I will withstand the strongest winds. I am a Kings choice garb to adorn his arm as he sits before his peers. My remnants are sought after to assure that none goes to waste.
But They become the finest linen at the most exquisite gala or. I am critiqued for flaws that only make me more unique.
Which is why he sets me on the highest shelf in await the appropriate buyer. Don't forget to laugh at jokes that aren't funny. Don't forget to love harder than you've ever loved before. Don't forget to share the wealth of knowledge that God is giving you. Remember it's not about you all the time and most of the time it's never about you.
Remember the purpose that came from the passion and the pain that exposed the passion. Remember to remember and remind yourself along the way.
Poetry and Spoken Word | Unbinding The Heart
Use sticky notes, people, places, touches, smells, tie a string on your steering wheel, letters never opened, drive by the old landmarks , If you do open it to remind you, forward it to yourself again. But remember never forget to stay whom God made you to be. Scars try to peel back and expose the rawness of your hurt. You have grown despite the pains and learned lessons that only scars like ours give. But empathetic to the pains of others who never expose theres. They hide in shadows and walk dark hallways alone. Self inflicted after no one seems to see nor hear the scars of actions from those who tormented.
To lift up the head of those whos scars go unnoticed or so they think. We see fear behind their smiles as we learn to heal our own scars.