poem

I sat in a boxWith walls on each side.Not too tall.Not too wide.To think.To ponder.To pray.To hide.I sat in a box and cried.

Scatter as a prayerescaping my lips...as orchidsblooming in clouds.

Where were you when I undressed and told the tales of my day?Where were youwhenI was silent with God in prandial pray?Where were youwhen I recited love poems as I lay?Where were you?

REMEMBER YOUR GREATNESSBefore you were born,And were still too tiny forThe human eye to see,You won the race for lifeFrom among 250 million competitors.And yet,How fast you have forgottenYour strength,When your very existenceIs proof of your greatness.You were born a winner,A warrior,One who defied the oddsBy surviving the most gruesomeBattle of them all.And now that you are a giant,Why do you even doubt victoryAgainst smaller numbers,And wider margins?The only walls that exist,Are those you have placed in your mind.And whatever obstacles you conceive,Exist only because you have forgottenWhat you have alreadyAchieved.Poetry by Suzy Kassem

The red washingdown the bathtubcan't change the color of the seaat all.

One weekend it rained for 48 hours without stopping. The rain beat like bony fingers against the window panes. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Fungus was growing on the walls. I polished off a bottle of gin sitting huddled over the two-bar electric fire and wrote a poem, one of the few that has lasted through the moves and the years. It is called 'Where Can I Go?'If this is not the place where tears are understood where do I go to cry? If this is not the place where my spirits can take wing where do I go to fly?If this is not the place where my feelings can be heard where do I go to speak? If this is not the place where you__l accept me as I am where can I go to be me? If this is not the place where I can try and learn and grow where can I go to laugh and cry?

I want to celebrate the sadness that makes you feel everything so deeply. I want to throw a party for the wounds that make you so unabashedly human.

Discouragement, fear, and depression__hree villains who lurk in the dark.They slip inside souls with a blindfold and goals to shatter your dreams and extinguish your spark.Their tactics are highly effective.They crush a great many each day.And under their spell it is easy to dwellOn fiascoes and failures that end in dismay.The heart and the mind are left heavy.The last speck of will is erased.And nothing stays on when these villains are gonebut a mouthful of bile with the bitterest taste.Alas! You must conquer the scoundrels!Elude, dodge, and keep them at bay!To feel fear slink in, boring under your skin,is a sign that his brothers are well on their way.So reach for your weapons against them!Take hope and hard work in each hand!Strap faith on your hips and a prayer on your lipsand show those debasers how firmly you stand!Discouragement, fear and depression__he truth should be known of these cads.They__e empty and weak; it is your strength they seek.Deny them and life is your wish in the bag.

The monsters were neverunder my bed.Because the monsterswere inside my head.I fear no monsters,for no monsters I see.Because all this timethe monster has been me.

Poetry is one of my guilty pleasures and I want to thank you poets for providing me with beautiful words that I can devour and selfishly indulge in any time I want. _-Nina Jean Slack

PoemWords from the heartBreaking, teaching, healingThe deepest, purest form of artFeeling

Look into words for the tomb of spacewhere beauties & stones & eternities untangle.(...)In them is the flood which bothers the seaand the songs which need no music.Say these words that evolve into silence,whose language survives not being understood.Pronounce those which are unpalatable &untangle from all the world wants to hear.

I know now that the poem in my head, the one that pushed me to the page, begged me - or dared me to be born is almost never the poem that comes out. I suppose it__ like anything born of/with free will and the will to live: once I__e given the seed, once the juices flow through any sort of birth canal and make it to the ambient air there will, at that point, be forces that come into play that are no longer entirely mine. To forget that each word is a life unto itself is to strangle it dead before it can even take a step.

Words are fossilized butterfly wings,pretty to look at sometimes,but only good for Museums.I want to miserably burn down the Museums.

Take each day in your open palms and close your fists around it. This life is not done with you yet.

Love is wind for the soul

The sky never falls with the rain. It is never weighed down by all that it carries. It takes all of its anchorsand turns them into stars. Learn from this.

The fly lands on the swatter.The movie runs backwardsand catches fire in the projector.This species apes us wellby talking only about itself