Tales of a Troubled Mother

They say the eyes are the window to the soul.
For the troubled mother, her soul rests on her sleeve,
for her eyes reveals not what she wants hidden.
Pretentious to please the perpetrators of her pain,
she keeps her tiles untarnished.
A prayer full of piety to conceal a scattered mind;
a mind torn between belief and scepticism,
relief and pessimism,
deceit and realism,
grief and optimism.
But her eyes displays not her shadowed soul,
or her desire for diminished lows.
Instead, her face will smile,
her arms will embrace,
her garments will speak on her behalf
whilst her soul remains misty,
until she's given back her most priced possession.

''they'll come through your womb but not be coming from you
they will be with you, but they do not belong to you
you can give them your love but not your thoughts cause they'll arrive with their own hearts'' - Jason Mraz (God rests in Reason) 

Adam's Apples

Beneath his droopy dim eyes lies his penchant for the paper,

A shared gaze draws him near as he bolts past his brother,

Rippled sweat roams rapidly on his face 

and betrays him by revealing his pace.

The cold lucid glass feels the warmth of his breath 

as the carefully knotted polythene strangles ten mahogany fingers.

He fixes his pleading pupils and flashes his pearly whites with tact.

Rattling prices as though a rhythmic routine,

his legs quiver as if time has been unkind.

She focuses on the fleeting movement of his famished mouth;

and spies misplaced saliva which sells him out.

Her lips part as muted words wander through his streets.

Streets created for his labour like Adam in Eden,

with no suitable helper to bear a burden.

Green-lights flash with no trade made,

and dashed hopes form across his face as distace fades.

She's whiffed-off wishing she plucked a piece of Adam's apples.

Dark Moments: Shining Glory

Flowers grow from Dark moments
Fighting to meet the world
To blossom dearly and humbly in the heavenly light.
Struggling through natural things
And things which are made to make you struggle.
An intuition to open my arms and smile
is prevented by many obstacles
I still stand tall,
head high
chest out, smiling and knowing deeply,
One day I would smile,
one day everyone would bow down when I smile
My obstacles are what strengthens me
To arise every time I die.

 By Nana Yaa Bartels.

Desire

Tap it hard in their souls
Let it mar the innocent wood
Make it beat into their conscience
Pierce their moods with the truth

Exhaust the lie out of his heart
Sound the facts with a stare
But discard the pleading glare
And break the air with the verdict.

Shout the dire penalty
Permit her wishes to transpire
The assuring gavel; causes her to fire
For it birth her desire.

The Forest

Emptiness is devoid of quality---never quantity.

We often dismiss the distinctive details in the fabric of life clothed around us.

Even the hollow forest captures the beauty in the changes life brings.

The high density of the trees are seemingly desolate and devastated... because we focus on its withering autumn leaves as the wicked winter-wind woos in,

whilst denying the beautiful shadows of the trees perching on crystal icy grounds.

How then can we appreciate a blossoming branch as it lures us in from a budding seed in spring?

And feel the joy of a bright sun as it ushers in on its gleeful green-land in the summer.

The beautiful Maya Angelou once penned... "We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty."

"Don't look back, at this crumbling fool"

Didn't I give it all?
Tried my best,
Gave you everything I had,
Everything and no less,
Didn't I do it right?
Did I let you down?

Maybe you got too used to,
Having me around,
Still, how can you walk away,
From all my tears?
It's gonna be an empty road,
Without me right here,

But go on and take it,
Take it all with you,
Don't look back,
At this crumbling fool...

--Adele

Rewriting Memories.

The lyrics of a soulful melody takes me back.
Each stanza possesses a pang of self-pity.
Perhaps the writer appropriated my diary.
I must rewrite those memories.
And then maybe, I'll find that fanciful feeling
in the work of another thieving artist.