Sorry it took so long, I was busy. I did miss you all though!!!!
The lost art of itching hands
All around me is hope and desperation,
You can't solve all the problems,
You can only teach those, who will listen,
How to survive,
Hope is the foundation of faith and vice-versa,
Fate is something you made to seal, or not,
Just like the creation of our curriences,
Realistic and metaphysical,
We live so cavalier,
In order to sustain a civil and structure life,
And yet we call ourselves, the chosen ones,
Where did the loophole rear its ugly head,
To aid us in our rationalization in making,
Wrong, right and the chosen lost, found,
We laugh at those at re-hab,
When we are the first in line always,
For our sins, for our trangressions,
For who we are and what we have chosen to become,
And all of this dances through our heads,
When we see a hand of despair reach out for ours,
Help, has no cost,
And it is the only things money cannot buy,
Paper has no boundaries against the human touch,
It doesn't make false houses of cards,
Waiting to be blown away by the chasing truth,
It is said when your hands start to itch,
That means money is coming your way,
But I have learn that it means so much more,
It means that it is time to see truth,
Within yourself, first,
And then, spread it around to all boundaries,
And with these words, which is in fact, currency,
There must come action,
And you will find your cause,
If you just stop and feel the sensations,
Of the hands that refuse no to itch,
The dancer moves without a trace,
Poetry by Saga
Read 691 times
Written on 2008-06-23 at 04:56
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
