Psalm 119:25, Daleth
“My soul clings to the dust, . . . ”
Whats in a word.
Was it mine to begin,
Did someone gave it to me,
how can i trust in the word,
only to have faith in the word.
Then i was shown to say it,
speak from it and write from it.
How then do u know when to summon and utter of it.
And when a disciple penned it,
I understood now what John meant.
Because all from whence it was,
He will always be,
coz he said it and the beginning,
But can it ever end?
each time i talk to you.
Knowingly you cannot even talk anything about your shit.
This head ache is gone yes,
but my life in a pinch is a stress,
that never ends,
where it leaves, my moutg follows.
A mass of gas,
circling, around my head,
never a square nor a cubed,
to put this sphere within.
One to pick,
two to tango,
never an orange red or yellow,
stemmed from green never blue of what its out from.
Nice at to look at,
To touch and pluck from its nest,
is a gesture of love and care.
With it all hope is there,
from it hope it is.
See please spread its word,
love is a tender care that blossoms in the wind,
carry it over, walk with it and lovingly give it to someone
who doesnt deserve it.
art blocke v2. khol 3e.i
Th3 world of sorrow
is not of this earth,
nor of its heaven,
its how we deal with our own medicine.
believe that you can,
believe you did something,
or at least tried to,
or at least made something for,
Why can’t we,
believe that we can do this together,
when some times or other times,
I do feel,
we operate at