Me and Dustin!
Welcome to my Blog…
Enjoy yourself, and thanks for stopping in.
I think, therefore I am.
Several Types of Logos
Hello, World!
Steve Harwell, lead singer for Smash Mouth’s, dies Monday in his Boise, Idaho home. He retired from the band, citing his health. TMZ reported that Harwell had been in hospice care from the final stage of liver failure. Survived by his fiancé, Ester Campbell. He was 56 years old.
With the way the economy is with the Coronavirus, and we have the inflations cost at a rise too. Having the need to write something to topple those few issues alone. And this quaint little Christmas writing began as a text message to my older brother, John, for Christmas, and my sister. I do not believe I have told him this either. Hmm? Come on in and read this delightful Christmas poetry. Guaranteed it puts a smile on your face.
I had been under a great deal of depression, and my demons putting me to work, creating this poetry. It touches my bases here, and that’s what I was aiming for. I live with a mental illness. Mental illness is not a joke and can lead some to suicide. Because they were going through something, they couldn’t handle it or couldn’t find any resolution and gave up the fight. I’ve been fighting and battling my demons, but, still, mental illness is no joking matter. Talk to someone, before giving up. Please, Support your local Mental Health Assoc. Mental illiness can be a complete setback. Know your triggers.
“Only Dreams Imagination” was written because of a group of fellow writers, Soupers is what we call ourselves, at PoetrySoup.com. But not just them, per se, but humanity. I pray these things for everyone along with your needs. I hope you find delight in this poem. It’s who I am, it’s always been, who I am!
This poem is about depression, anxiety, and the ups and downs of the back-set in life, called mental illness. I was born with, hyperactivity disorder, and couldn’t control my behavior. This led to further implications within my life.
Superficial it may be, but "A Heart Inside Dreams,' hm, profound it is genuinely. I am living a dream now, and I thought all my dreams were taken from me, and that was my family. However, I am a writer now and always dreamed of this day to come. So I have accreditation, merit, the accomplished author knew he needed to write this rhyme. I am an artist and draw, too, making that a slam dunk uniqueness.
The true story of what happened that lead up to my son’s death? There are still some things undisclosed, and I, for reason’s, to the betterment of my mental state of being. A wrong way to go and over something petty could have resolved anyone had any thoughts on the matter. But inside source came to confirm what my gut was saying and what my son and I had talked about over the cellphone of one of the suspects last seen with him the night of October 1, 2011. This non-fiction short story is a well-deserved read.
This poem I wrote with you in mind most of all. I guess I shouldn't say it that way. How about it's a long-overdue poem introducing myself to my audience if I have one, that is. Haha, I think you'll like this rather quaint poem. Come on, let's step inside, see you there!
Revised Edition; Sometimes, we don't know why we're here? Some of us end up going through life, not knowing our purpose, just passing through and existing in a separate realm. But that's ok, that some of us go through life not knowing if you didn’t know? But He does give us direction.
Hm, how can I explain this? A poem from my heart to whomever it shall fit, it could be a rebirth into Christianity. It’s however you percieve it, I would like to say. It might be I wrote it for myself, not knowing consciously, not sure. Its well penned and well versed.
Because April is National Poetry Month, I've decided to write this poem and dedicate it to this joyous occasion and to all the poets and poetesses of the world in a symbolism. And to our, the copywriter's, here at PoetrySoup for giving us a place to publish such works.
So proud she be, that mighty oak tree, providing us the oxygen that she and we, counts on to survive. Her natural-born beauty, that we have adorned. We know her purpose, of being here, providing us essentials, we can not deny. I appreciate what she gives to us. Being that carpenter, that I am, a naturist as well.
The enemy is on the rise. Every day they try to add new stipulations. One World Government/New World Order. The Antichrist is breathing down our necks as time draws near if we do not win the elections. Antifa, BLM, Luciferians, Illuminati. The mark of the beast shall be in there as well.
You want to talk about getting lost in your writing. Well, these words got me confused. Ha! I guess as a writer, anything is possible in this business. Written like a parable, I had stop and think just what I was writing about. Mind wandered here, and there. Not real sure I should be telling you, folks, this either. hahaha...
Enjoy my friends, not sure how many times I laughed at myself here?
The author here seems to be in a writers block. Is the author, caught in his crossfire in his mind. He struggles to find his muse. But, the writing of this poem, just may have broken the authors sway of his block. Click the link and come and read it for yourself how well he has versed this poem.
I have been searching for many years, 10-15, for some missing poetry. t A dubious publisher from the past that took advantage of at least a million or more poets and poetesses. The material that made them millions without the expressed permission of those authors. And, tried selling these books back to the authors of their works at ridiculous prices. It was perseverance and drive to find at least some of them. I had copies that I kept in an email account, which I lost the password or forgot it. That back then, if you didn't have the exact information, you weren't getting into that address. Today, it is different, which goes to show how far our technology has come. I thank my lucky stars and a machine called the Wayback for coming through, to at least finding remnants of these poems. I'll leave their name out of this, a bad publisher of an inexperienced young author back then.
It was Thanksgiving Day, we had just finished dinner. The kids left the table and went to play with the toys they had found that morning under the tree. We took our own way in tradition, and since we had kids, we had always laid out toys and a set of pajama’s. The day was going fairly well, except for the fact, I seen him as an unwanted guest, but, it was my wife’s brother. I didn’t like the kid, he was 17 1 ⁄ 2 years old, didn’t mean I haven’t love him, but, I didn’t have to like him, at all.
This poem is written about the unstable perpetrators of innocence. it took me two years to write. This happened to my family and it traumatized me the most. I won’t let him win, but I am in self-conviction and cannot find forgiveness for me. It’s been 22 years, it is time to forgive myself. I’ve been writing a story about this tragedy and will be releasing it in the near future.
