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I have loved music for as long as I can remember;
in all honesty, I have loved music
longer than I have loved poetry;
I have loved music, I have been changed by music,
I have felt more alive than ever
when listening to music,
I have been overcome with emotion when listening to music;
I have closed my eyes, been taken,
carried far, deep, and high-
as if I were swimming in the voice, the lyrics,
and the sound of the music, the energy of the music,
and drifting peacefully, contently, effortlessly,
free like a feather.

Music has been a big part of my life since before I could talk;
music had me running before I could walk;
music sent me to sleep and coloured my dreams;
music awoke me every morning as a child,
and within the heart of my soul
it has always been and will always be.

I must have heard thousands of songs;
I must have heard hundreds of artists,
singers, musicians, and bands;
I must have dreamed that I were John Lennon
playing guitar and singing along with the other Beatles
about fifty times, bu I could be wrong;
I must have had more favourite songs in my life
than I could count with the fingers on both of my hands.

I love songs, styles, speeds, of every type,
and possible genre, and classification, of music;
I love songs that take a hold of both my mind and my heart,
and make me feel epic;
I love songs that have unique, poetic, empathetic,
sometimes tragic, lyrics;
I love songs that are nothing short of celestial magic.

I love female voices;
I love male voices;
I love instruments;
I love voices that are soulful, special, lyrical,
incredible, unbelievable, beautiful, different;
I love who I am when a song makes me want to dance;
I love when a song puts me in a trance;
I love what I think about when a song is playing;
I love where I go within myself,
as I sing along to every song,
and as I repeat every line without mistake,
it is almost as if I am chanting or praying;
I love a song that to me is nothing short of perfect;
I love life, art, inspiration, memories,
feelings that were made, created, felt, captured,
made infinite, because of, and for,
the love of music.

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My favourite song is playing on the radio;
I am drinking my favourite drink, in my favourite place;
my thoughts are in over-drive,
as I sit, looking around, with a smile on my face;
it’s raining outside, but life is sweet
and I am happy and warm inside- like hot raspberry jam;
I am having a flashback and a flash-forward,
between a happy little boy,
and a content old man.

I have always felt like a conduit;
I have always sought out and shared;
I have always believed that you can carry everything you need,
most of the time, in your trouser pockets;
I have always gone to the edge,
taken a risk, and gone farther sometimes than others might choose to dare,
in thoughts, in feelings, on foot, on a path
that never doubles back on itself-
but the things that happen on it do feel strangely familiar;
life is a playground of spins, swings, ups, and downs,
tears, smiles, pain, and laughter-
so it is never a surprise to me that things reoccur.

In this day and age, everybody is looking for a power-point,
a place to plug-in and recharge;
everyday, everybody, wherever they are,
take advantage of the free,
the seemingly-indispensable, the small, the large;
today, right now, a billion years ago, always,
life in all its forms makes the most of what it has
and what surrounds it, and everything reacts and adapts
to certain things, at certain times, in a myriad of ways.

Things have a history;
you can always find a pattern to follow;
the definitive meaning of life will always be a mystery;
but what everybody and everything really needs to know
is always with you and inside you wherever you go.

You can’t go around life, you can only go through it;
you can’t hide yourself forever,
because one day someone will unlock your soul,
and read your mind, and know your heart better than anyone,
and make you realize that you too are a conduit.

 

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There are always possibilities;
the future is not set in stone;
what we see and what we find
is sometimes beyond what we have dreamed about
in our fantasies;
what we build can last and endure for thousands of years,
like the Colosseum in Rome.

People and structures cast shadows
when the light of the sun is shining behind them;
thoughts and ideas are expressed instantly
when there is a phenomenal desire to share them;
music and poetry is the natural art of the soul
made tangible to ever sense of perception;
emotions and feelings always find a way
to give you some much-needed inspiration redemption.

Hope never dies;
those who fall must always try to get back up;
it’s good to smile, it’s good to cry;
you have to start at the bottom
to fully-appreciate what it takes to rise to the top.

You are always someone’s idea of perfection;
someone will always look back at you
and think of you as a dream come true;
you will always be the drug of someone’s addiction;
someone will do anything, and they will go anywhere,
just so that they can be happy-
and the reason that they are happy
is because they are with you.

We all go through things that are personal to us;
we are all at times affected and afflicted by the fever
and the cure of life;
we all remember what we have lost,
but what is important to you and to everything
is the thing that you take with you to sleep every night.

When you are out in the open,
staring out to the sea,
looking up at the clear blue sky,
or watching nature close-up maintain its never-ending cycle,
that keeps going, and keeps turning, and spinning,
like a multi-coloured, deeply-ingrained, album of vinyl;
when there is a light behind you
in place of a light and a direction to guide you,
you can always know where you are
and what time of your life it is
by looking around you and seeing the shape of the shadows
besides you and coming from you,
like telling the time by a sun dial.

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The lonely word.
The lonely heart.
The lonely world.
The lonely art.
The lonely voice.
The lonely face.
The lonely choice.
The lonely race.

You can sometimes think you are walking alone
even when you are in a crowd;
you can sometimes feel you are hearing nothing
even when the world sounds so loud;
you can sometimes see the world distorted;
you can sometimes hear the distant call
of someone who you may not have seen for a long time,
who is nowhere even near you at that exact time-
like the voice of a ghost,
but even though you can’t see that person
you have no doubt as to its origin,
and you will swear on your life
that you heard the person that you heard say what they said
in the way and in the voice that they said it.

The lonely soul just wants a mate.
The lonely journey is always more bareable
when you have got someone to travel it with.
The lonely note just wants to be played
until it becomes a source and a beacon of hope.
The lonely time can be when you are on a break.
The lonely place can be when and where you feel
like you have nowhere to be and nowhere to live.
The lonely mark can be the brightest and the most wonderful
and wise question and answer that can help you to cope.

Sometimes when you feel the most lonely,
you are the most surrounded by friends, energy,
affection, and love;
sometimes when you feel like you need somebody so badly,
you already and always have them with you-
because they are like the stars that are always there
twinkling in the dark heavens above.
Sometimes when you feel like you are being infected by something,
you are actually being cured;
sometimes the most inspiring and breathtaking thing in the world
can make you feel something incredible,
but can also be the loneliest of words.

It’s so important to never forget.
One of the greatest things we can do in life is remember.
It’s a gift to be able to hold on to the memory
of somebody special that you know like a brother, or a sister,
or even the face and the legacy of someone you never even met.

You need to hurt and feel pain
before you can try to make sense of any loss,
and over time that intense maelstrom of emotion
will transform and again remind you why every day of life,
and the lengths that we sometimes have to go in life,
are significant and essential beyond measure.
Everyone needs time to close their eyes,
take a breath, and refocus,
and even though when we do lose someone before their time
we do need to mourn them,
and we should all look for the signs
that they are indeed still around in some form, or another-
because a soul is the purest and the most amazing energy there is,
and the same energy that created and sustains the universe
every second, and which cannot be forgotten, or destroyed, ever.

Life is like a library,
and every person, plant, animal, thought, invention, and memory,
is a book and a source of reference in that library
that we can all choose to read and reread if we feel the need.
So much happens for so many reasons that we will never understand,
but that is why we have to appreciate every face, every cover,
every name, every page, every addition, every edition,
of every life that is born, written, lives-
because everything is a thing of beauty,
and no matter how you may feel sometimes,
you and the world can only go in one direction,
and if you are truly open to the constantly changing
and evolving twists and turns that everyone faces
you will knowingly fulfill the potential of your life,
and all life, and when in the possession of such knowledge
there is no knowing where the road of your life will lead.

Our mind, our spirit, our consciousness, our soul-
everything about us that is the most important thing about us,
that is not of the body,
that is the most phenomenal thing about every human being,
that is deeper than any ocean anywhere on any planet,
and is the adhesive that holds together the whole.

Our essence extends beyond us.
Our mind never stops working.
While our body is resting, regenerating,
after being used to excess,
our mind interprets the messages that we have received,
but not clearly perceived, from the world around us-
a process that we can sometimes witness the progress of
while we are dreaming.

When a baby is born,
when a child first cries-out
and first extends the reach of their life-force and touches the heart
and connects with the consciousness of their parents,
the moment is so magnificent, overwhelming, and enticing-
it is as magnetic as the Earth’s core,
and as beautiful as the song of Angels.

When a body breathes its last breath,
and enacts its last deed;
when a body reaches its last instant of usefulness before death,
and you feel the sensation of being new-born again and free-
at that moment you need nothing,
at that moment you hear nothing,
at that moment your entire life unfolds before you
and reveals the meaning of your life
and why you were so integral in keeping the universe expanding,
keeping the galaxy spinning, and keeping the world as diverse,
engaging, and wonderfully-unpredictable,
as it has always been since its beginning.

People never truly die.
When we die, I believe that all that we are, all that we ever were,
and all that we forever will be, goes on-
and as we shed our mortal shackles,
as we take our final look at a sunrise or a sunset,
we understand what it all means:
why people in our life mean so much to us,
and why acceptance and realization is life’s key-
that is when all existence comes into focus,
and we understand that we are celestial beings in our natural form
of many states of reality that are not of the body.

The authenticity of real life is a poet’s portal to new rhymes,
but the fluency to interpret the pattern’s that are there at all times
is a gift that, from my perspective, is a true poet’s reason to write:
to experience the wonder’s of the world, and see nature’s light,
and then with all the inspiration that a poet possesses
create something with a heart and a soul, and delivery it to the masses.

No matter the poet, no matter the circumstance,
in my opinion every writer has an adherence
to find, and interpret as best they can, the truth of the moment:
that which binds all, is accounted for, and was always present
when the poet infused the depth that created their snap-shot in the first place:
the reason they picked that picture to try and define like that of clock face.

To me a poet is like a photographer who takes a photo with their soul-
who sees something with their eyes, but who seeks to record, and often extol,
the spectacle that they have seen, experienced, and felt,
and relive with words that moment in a way into which a reader could just melt.
A poet should always strive to excite the mind of their reader,
to make them a part of the picture and not just an observer,
to make them feel what they felt when they connected with what they saw,
to give the reader a reason to return after they withdraw:
a promise that what lies in the sea is not everything that washes up on the shore.

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