Wordsmith

A woman with a voice is by definition a strong woman. But the search to find that voice can be remarkably difficult. –Melinda Gates

Greetings,

Poetry is such a wonderful art form and it requires no immense skill, just raw and pure emotion.

As I am striving to be a rainbow in someone else’s cloud (Maya Angelou reference), I decide to post two original pieces of mine. I hope that this in some way inspires  other people and if you choose to use this, just give me credit.😊

Here goes:

I have found that the psyche of a nomad is quite resplendent, if you consider it.

All they really desire is an inconceivable attachment to something they’ve yet to wrap their heads around.

Metaphorically- they are those who wander aimlessly into villages, finding makeshift solace and opulence within the hearts of others who wish for even a microscopic fragment of love for their personal ownership.

Quite romantic, don’t you think?

I, who resonates with soap bar remnants, delicate yet still convenient after being used, preloved, over and over and over until the last flake dissolves, sporadically fantasize of being nomad.

Subsequently, by being such, I , knowingly, will possess the power to inflict the pain of abandonment and selfishness in such an unfathomable magnitude that I have never had the experience of undertaking but sure as heaven and hell have felt.

As, I should be cautious of what I desire, although it be a cavernous craving, human nature irrefutably takes over.

Abnormally enough, I get drunk off playing sober and acting like there is no searing poker, the color of diabetes plagued cherry Kool-Aid on sultry July day, probing deeper into my aorta.

He be my scarlet letter. My constant reminder of my sin of loving not just him but what he stands for, what is concealed behind closed doors. For when everyone else shuts their eyes, mine become as wide as the distance traveled from the Motherland to this forsaken land, symbolism of my own lonely heart, and I see him. I’m sure that when Stevie wrote My Cherie Amor, he did not mean it in the way I do.

I feed off the feeling of a foreign love and somehow always find my first chance of escape when I convince myself that it cannot be realistic.

If being nomadic was a religion, I am positive that we millennials would worship it as acutely as we do the superficial aspects of this world.

Nevertheless, the leverage of an overnight transition resulting in clarity of the soul and grey matter- the stirring phenomenon of a clear head following a night’s slumber with heavy dreams and preoccupation.

I’ve realized that the ultimate goal in life is to find something, anything , worth ditching the nomadic disposition lying within our veins. Essentially, we are all wanderers but the beauty lies in locating the thing that ends the addiction. Greater than any nicotine patch, than any comfort food, but true, authentic, honest, magnificent amor.

That, is worth stopping for and enjoying all of the wonders that arrive with it.