HOW TO BECOME HUMAN
Creativity makes a man a thinker. And the best way to raise your standard of living is to raise your standard of thinking.
Thinking faculty is the only diversity between human and lower beasts. Everyone is an animal positive thinking turns a person
a human. It's scientific universal known that we are higher animals and a dog like is classified lower. So therefore every persons have to be optimistically positive. That's true quality of human. It's how to become a human. Upgrade your standard of thinking.
#c9_fm

Why are the things I want the most
found on the highest shelf?
I question why others can reach
and why I can’t reach myself.
Are my legs too stout or small,
or my arms too short to love?
Is my heart too low below my head
to reach so high above?
I learn not how strong or tall
or how high up a thing is stacked
but how smart you are to make it fall
and secure the bottom rack

Afternoons are for self-indulgence.
All other pursuits are inadvisable
(they usually end in tears,
or never get off the ground).
Lethargy and sleepiness prevail.

But if you give in to the whims
of the subconscious,
take off all your clothes
and get back into bed,
stare at the branches moving gently
     outside your window,
Then, then all the magic of
     the universe is at your disposal.
The journey has just begun
into a clover leaf or out
  to the far reaches of the
   galaxy and beyond.
To dream in the afternoon
  is the utmost pleasure.

I want to climb this mountain

I fear not its height

the mountain becomes tiny

when there is a belief in victory in me

i want to climb this mountain

i fear not the dense brambles and thorns

so be it if i had to leave behind

a trail of my own blood

i will still break through the spiked army in the end

i want to climb the mountain

i am not afraid of tigers nor leopards

as long as there is a shotgun in my hand

the beasts will run off

with tails between their legs

i will climb this mountain

i am not afraid of bumpy roads

as long as i treat it like staircase

the mountain is nothing but a lotus

at my feet.

Creative vibes bounce all around
Just catch them while you play
Or when you work
Or during sleep
Catch hundreds every day

Then use the very best you find
You only need a few
So choose the best
Just leave the rest
And thank the muses too

Creative vibes don’t live in us
They’re zipping all around
Just harmonize
Use “inner eyes”
Creative vibes abound

You may not always see them there
But if you look you’ll find
Success will grow
You’ll surely know
The grand creative mind

“What is a poem?”
My English teacher asks,
then barely pauses before answering his own question.
Lists of rules and reasons
spill from his mouth,
so many that he’s cut off by the bell.

I refrain from raising my hand
and telling him that anything can be a poem
if you want it to be.

The painting on the wall,
the fleeting peace that comes
from looking at the moon,
the little boy whose hands are already rough
and calloused with use.

Nothing makes a poem
but our minds and thoughts and wishes
for “poem” is just a word
but what it gives us is ours to decide.

Maybe even this is a poem,
though my English teacher would disagree.

When I: with small words: bent to whisper
Some of her hairs (bronze and electric)
Touched my cheek.
Adrenalin sang: synapses burst into flower
All awareness flared
Just as she turned her eyes to me

Seen from above: they were a deep green well
Where secrets swam,
The green core at the heart of sunset’s backlit breaking wave
Sunlight through summer’s stain glass forest leaves
Greenstone on the beds of mountain streams
Wide pale emeralds set in the strong and lovely bones of face
Whirlpools in which to willingly spin
Mythic green flash of sun drowning in horizon’s sea

Then, leaning,
Still closer to her hair (because I loved the voltage there)
I gave my words
But closeness was a shock that rocked: then paralysed
A near eternal minute: unfolding time was frozen there.
There was a thing like scent: no musks, no florals nor turpines
But it held me tranced
Cocooned by it I swayed upon my feet
Intoxicant beneath the sun
Enveloped in a perfect moment


Then: stunned: I had to walk away
In to the everyday

PaulSN

I have seen her--
a beautiful author of fine
heart-matters..  she catches
words out of thin air--  and
in reaching out her hand;

they,  with great zeal
slow down for her.

When she makes them  
 her own
they gladly  give up
their semantic-like  little
autonomies.

Like me, they
trust her heart with
everything--

  even their own  
 re-naming..

And like me also,
they feel safe
when they are
near her.