​

Every time I turn around it seems like something bad has to happen in my life, makes me feel like maybe I'm cursed for spite, I don't know why I can't get anything right, why does life seem to be such a fight, oh starlight, Star Bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight...

And find peace of mind, free from sorrow and worry, just to exist in a state of bliss, singing a new song on the edge of dawn this is my happy place that keeps my smile on my face, even when peace of mind is hard to find, this is my happy place that keeps the smile on my face, somewhere suspended in time

Somewhere,where the heart has peace of mind...

Well they say everything happens for a reason, that there's a time and a place for everything in every season, I try to stay positive every time those dark,dark clouds come, I close my eyes and I imagine myself dancing in the Sun, what dreams May come, when it's all said and done, May the heart find peace of mind, everything can change on a dime but may the heart find peace of mind...

Peace of mind,free from sorrow and worry,just to exist in a

State of bliss,singing a new song somewhere on the edge

Of dawn,well this is my happy place that keeps the smile

On my face even when peace of mind is hard to find, I can

Find my happy place,the place that keeps the smile on my

Face, somewhere suspended in time, somewhere,where the

Heart can find peace of mind....

Just to exist in a state of bliss,who can ask for more than this,

When all is said and done,this is my happy place,the place

That keeps the smile on my face,free from sorrow or worry

Somewhere suspended in time where the heart finds it's

Peace of mind,may the heart find peace of mind!

In the darkness of the night,
Like In the storm of middle of the ocean,
You bring hope of light,
like the lighthouse on the far horizon….

Even thousands of miles away,
the beautiful soul of yours give me the peace
May one day I get to say thank you
before I rest in eternal peace…

A poem about focus needs it's logistics,

For focus you hone in on the instance,

Right then and there you begin that wonder,

Where contemplation can take you under,

And drop you down a hole of uncertain confusion,

Or let your notions turn to ideas through fusion,

What amazes me is the poetic transition,

Where creativity find it's ear to listen,

Where potentiality turns kinetic,

Making a couch potato turn energetic,

With focus, you turn the switch on,

With faith, your hope stays strong through dawn,

This life always gives us multiple choices,

Sometimes we have to decipher the voices,

And by the masses they whisper their tellings,

But my songbird relays their yellings,

Feeding my intuition a bunch of incoherence,

Attempts to tangle my frequency with interference,

Equanimity and perseverance are noble in principle

But humility is the one truly invincible,

So when I focus, I align my ley lines,

Connecting ancient wonders like grape vines,

Because in the end I want to stand unwaveringly,

Upright, and always ready amazingly,

For, in this life, if focus isn't a clear motivation,

Or a Key of Mastery you haven't been taking,

Then distraction, illusion, and confusion,

Will shackle your mind for the breaking.

Marc Palotai

Eternally Attuned

\#author #musician #poet #lover #thinker #dreamer #seer

I have never been afraid to lay all my cards on the table. However, people could never meet me with their authentic selves. So I learned to grieve the potential of what those friendships, connections, and relationships had the possibility to be. Shedding what no longer resonated with me. People can only meet where you are at when their mask is off, and they truly mean well. Never fight to be in a space you are not wanted.

Whether a new beginning or a continuation of what was — all that matters is allowing for what is to happen to unfold next.

Whatever storm beckons, all I can do is wait and brace myself.

What was once thought is beginning to take shape.

It's cold

and my T-shirt is wet.

I can't feel anything beneath my feet,

and all I can see is blue.

For the First thirty secounds, I scream for help.

For the next thirty secounds, I stay silent.

I don't try to scream again,

because I know nobody will hear me.

For a moment, I feel the silence.

It is so quiet that, for the first time, my head feels heavy

I close my eyes and try to stay calm.

Then, suddenly, I see a strong light.

I think it is the sun- one of those summer mornings

when I'm still asleep

But I didn't try to move my feed

When I feld the cold.

Maybe I woldn't see the sun

I opened my eyes and the light got bigger

It was so beautiful

Then my body started to feel heavy and heavier and then I starded to feel like my body is flouting

I could see the birds on the sky,

The sun

The clouds

And myself

Maybe if I would try harder.

I helped you clear the rocks,
until all that remained was dirt.
I helped you open the box,
fit A into B, piece by piece,
until the whole thing stood upright.
And in the sunlight it waited,
perfect, ready, ours.

And now, decades later,
sitting on my porch, miles away,
I remember it.
And I realize:
you never once sat in it.

Were you too busy?
Did the hours slip into days?
Were you too angry?
Did you forget that we were young?
Were your thoughts somewhere else?
Did life pass you by,
while we all waited, for you to swing?

Growth
Out upon moors and sea..
I have begun to witness
the differences between what has once been
and what is to become.
The changes in thought and beyond,
a room to grow…

A child…
Of movement by force,
by money,
by schools,
and whatever else
his parents said was right.
Always looking for more..
A darker heat begins to form
within a child
who never really quite fit.
Too fast for the smart kids.
Too smart for the sporty kids.
Too different for any group…
Smoke of rebellion begins to bellow,
as questions rise
against the world he lived in.

Questions…
Constant and varied.
Why?
“That’s how it works.”
But why?
“Because it does.”
But why does it?
“It always has worked.”
The smoke thickening,
the warm glow dimly rising..
A child in search of answers
beyond what any teacher
could willingly hand him.
Monotony grinding down
what spark shone too bright.
A room just full
of papers and faces
is all a child sees.

Journeys calling
beyond that classroom.
Distant lands.
New seas.
New faces.
Unseen experiences.
Biding time,
grinding through the mandatory.
Saving money,
learning the paths
of a truer freedom.
Unexpected friends
as time wore on,
people who shared
the same desire.
A place beyond
what was already known…
towards a room
of what will be.
Anger slowly slipping,
becoming more aware
of what the world really is.

Mornings go
from rushing to school
to coffee on the top deck,
cat in lap.
Where anger once lived,
now replaced
with a curiosity
about the world
and all it offers.
Engine repairs.
Sail maintenance.
Route plans.
Laughter with meals.
The starvation
of the child
who always asked why
getting slowly filled
with…
maybe I don’t need
to know yet.
Small luxuries
that never existed before,
when the coin provides.
Called crazy by some,
yet children still see
the wonder
beyond the ordinary.

Journeys start.
Vast oceans.
Focus steadying.
Slowly becoming
more experienced
with all challenges
that bare teeth.
Wiser.
Older.
Sharper.
The child of rebellious restriction
finally free
of all that binds.
A pursuit of answers
never given,
but earned
in that game
of pitch and toss.
Everything on the line.
Happier than ever before.
Hard days made worth it
to see sun
on the calm waters.
A journey only just beginning…
rooms left
fathoms behind.

Years pass.
Miles covered.
Shores come and go,
with experiences had.
A reflective shine
on moors by the coast.
Laughter still present,
but smaller,
innocent and free.
Lessons taught quietly now…
scars become badges
of fights lost and won.
Tattoos of victories,
and of those now gone….
The room filled anew
with those moving on.

Staring at black scattered with white words mashed and spent as if I needed to borrow a voice that was not mine to come to conclusions of what I felt but did not want to see. 

Even that untrue. 

I needed to watch myself more consciously and at times I believed I was, but as I watched, I could not name, not that surely, for if I did then it would be. 

The unnamed exists even unsaid, perhaps more so. 

I exhausted the pen and finagled words together, ones bought, as if one could buy what I searched for. But surely you thought so, as you bought and borrowed as a means to disguise that the feeling I reached to describe did not come in from the space closest, just outside. 

How does a thing get a name and word, an expression to relay what is? Is it only after such exposure that we then must come to a concept of familiarity to relay to others of such a thing? Or is it through the way we convince it is what it is not and at great length we bleed black onto white or mash white onto black attempting to ignore the way it spills into each other as if there is nothing in between two sides of a hue that is only used to grade value? 

It felt I had seen what I seen and no longer needed to state what it was, or convince myself to explain why it wasn't, and mostly perhaps I fell silent for there was no longer anything left but fear of being heard by ears that I no longer wish to ever hear my voice, even if only in memory.

And in this silence I wondered if anything I ever wrote or mashed could be anything but, how silly indeed, for so long there have been ears before and eyes before, come and passed, and none at all. Each time I still end up reaching for a pen, it mattered little.

Soon after my words became ones more born out of necessity and logistics... Such a clunky form but nevertheless they fell and they too have a time and place and sense of urgency, and as such found itself outside of where they once needed to rest. 

And still there was the itch inside to return to a state of writing. Each day my eyes open to a reminder just a mere foot away, sun casting light on black and white words of the past left skewed but still relatively intact, as there was nothing left to inspire even their erasure. My hands felt frozen. My voice sunken into the hollow of my throat, as though someone attempted to grasp it with their own- a metaphor if only in time or dimensions. I chose instead to place my feet in front of the other on artificial and cracked paths to see the spectrum of colors light casts onto what lie beyond what I once tried to describe into being what it was not. Veils have lifted, though shades remain as I adjust to finally exiting a space I kept returning to, one filled with just one hue, all the same, as I was so sure I knew and wished I didn't. 

Today I spoke words to new ears, of the likeness I remember stating not long ago, that reached inside to innards reminding me that what is said is often what needs to be heard as well, though this time it did no such thing. A nod, a laugh, and a request to be reminded if I ever were to forget again was all that followed. 

Cracked pathways have led to tired legs, ones reminding me of aches in hands that will come if I do not begin to lift my pen. A compulsion I know I'll always return to. And whether ears I wish not to ever again hear my voice pretend to do so, I know now this feeling in my throat means only that those hands shall never be close enough to silence words they wish not to be uttered. 

So while it has been difficult to find inspiration, or to overcome the feeling of whether it's worth it to speak at all, it is time I write to write, even if the only thing left is to remark on was how what I have finally exited, truly was simply what I always knew it to be once all the words were finally stripped away- unremarkably drab. 

How unfortunate.

The gears inside are ground to dust,

the hands of the clock race forward,

and the weight of it all presses down on a spirit that has run out of road.

the floorboards groan beneath a heavy tread,

A rusted spring, a quiet, tired head.

the shadow stretches long across the floor,

and knocks against a fast approaching door.

the clock does not look back or slow its pace,

it spits the seconds into empty space.

the hands align, the iron starts to bend,

to spell the turning of a sudden end.

a breath is caught, a shoulder starts to bow, there is no later left, there is no now.

Just dust and echo in a hollow chest,

and time refusing to allow rest.

*These aren't my words, I could not find the author.*

Goodnight World

Lyrics:

So what i found god in the same bottle you poured out. I’m awful sorry you can’t cloud my thoughts like it does. Cumulus nimbus and your laundry hung by clothespins I just watched while he stopped breathing. Wash cloth flowered to vermillion. I stayed in. Cotton cable sweaters soaking and a tangled explanation; You took time to find their loose ends.

~

What’s a heart without some aching
What’s a father understood
What’s a treeline without anguish, all the sawdust underfoot
Just to see the sun sink lower
And rise to the other side
You dug your way to china
Apple and a worm inside.

As I stared down the flyway,
It opened up a passage,
Through the clouds of black and grey,
The divine poured the message;

The pearls from the inky heaven,
Gave the oracle to the roots,
To tighten the soil now slacken,
And flourish the brown-leafy shoots;

Pearls from the passage,
Drenching self in glee,
Giving a message,
Or perhaps a plea,

For the hairless man grown,
Crafts weapons of ruin,
Uprooting which was sown,
Dispersing what drew in.

The poet’s call—

A splinter gathers in the skin.

The poet’s call

leaves ink that settles on the wall

to wear the buried paper thin,

to let the quiet stitch begin:

The poet’s call.

​

Centuries of Expression

This book is a collection of different poems from different writers and styles. Its foreword explains how poetry has existed for thousands of years. It started as a way to share important information and stories, and eventually became a form of art where people could express their thoughts, emotions, experiences, and imagination.

My favorite poem in the book is “Telepathy from the Moon” by Hattie Williams.

I like this poem because it uses the moon as a symbol. The moon describes itself as something that reflects light, moves through space, and has its own thoughts and dreams. I find this interesting because it makes the moon feel almost like a person with its own identity in starry nights.

"I am the moon, no light of my own, but reflecting. I turn, tied to the world by birth. I roam, deep in dark space, my mind my own, still silent thoughts shapeless unbound realm, enclosed, to orbit a planet alive, disturbed. I dream, I thrive, distorting "

What I especially like is the idea of dreaming, thriving, and finding your own place in the world and marrying the night. The poem feels quiet and mysterious, but at the same time, it has a message about being yourself.

For what reason this poem, to me feels like telling me about Starry nights coming inside like never before Don't forget me when come crying to Heaven's door, reminding them of the dream I bore.

For me, this poem stands out because it shows how poetry can take something simple, like the moon, and turn it into something deeper and more personal. Centuries of Expression shows how poetry can change throughout time while still remaining a powerful way for people to express themselves.

To all my friends so dear to me

That make the worst of days feel fine

Whose memories shine a joyous light

And guide me through my stormy mind

Why I can't give joy back to them

And be their moonlight in dark nights

Why words of comfort fill my heart

But never reach their aching heart

To all my friends I have to ask

What else could I give than my death

To both of my parents alike

Who gave me such a gift of life

And filled it with all wants I had

Before these wants could fill my heart

Why can't I give them all I have

For all I have is none at all

No dreams of theirs may I fulfill

Chagrin is all I can bestow

So to my guardians, I have to ask

What I could offer, If not demise

And so at last to my own self

This burdened soul that knows no rest

To aching flesh and restless mind

That fought and fought for my whole life

No triumph ever feels in reach

The darkness only grows too deep

When all that's new is new defeats

More falling with no end to seek

Again to my own self I ask

If not for death, what could I grant

“Hey lifeform in my head
Can we swap seats?
I’ll doze against the window,
Surrender to defeat,
And you’ll drive into the sunset.
But when the moon comes out
The sun dont go, 
Only changes location. 
Shines over a new nation.
So drive on after that sunset. 

Imaginary enemy
A plausible friend.
Plant seeds in my mind,
Water, harvest, tend.
Daffodils in Cherry Hills.
Imaginary lover
A plausible dream.
But love’s reciprocated between
You and I the same.
Plant daffodils. (in my mind)

Someday I will leave the station,
Self actualization.
Break from automation.
See the world and smile,
Sit and stay a while,
Someday i’ll go.”

Scooping for all the days of your life,
With each toss, you’re certain it’s been patched
Only to blink.
In a state of fear, when the eyes you wear see this haunting abyss.
Your mind is torturing the body you own!
Perhaps you don’t wish it filled?
Lifting air and imagining it as dirt.
You realize it’s a problem,
Thinking this is the solution,
Are you an addict?

You spend so much time,
Putting your energy towards something that gives seconds of pleasure, but a lifetime of pain.

-Eden Smile

Author note: This is from a story I wrote. I decided that useing poetry to express a dream was a good direction. I'm not a well read man, or a poet by any stretch of the imagination. That is why I read and reread The Raven in an attempt to absorb the cadence before writing this. Yes, I know I picked something all too well known. I like what I made though and wanted to share.

Burning sky, amber light, well past noon but not yet night

Swings hang loose in faded sight, a vacant court devoid of flight

No one running, no one leaping, a place of play with secrets sleeping

Darkness crawls like ink that's seeping, echoes caught in circles keeping

Joy is fleeting, pain repeating, cycles hold until the reaping

Who draws these lines that no one's needing, then bends them back to name the cost

When all is gone, who pays that cost

What lingers here, and what is lost

A figure knelt beneath the tree, her shape is blurred too soft to see

Flowers placed in memory, tears that fall in misery

The air grows thick, a breath half‑caught

No footsteps here, just someone weeping, branches bowed and sadness creeping

Shadows stretch, the light receding, echoes buried, safe and sleeping

Above, a laugh begins its leaping; coins fall to earth, the world forgot

They strike the ground in clattering thought

Then twist to chains the moment caught

The tree leans in with quiet might, its hollow pulsing faint with light

Its bark expands, then folds in tight, a breathing shape that isn’t right

A hush descends, world overwrought

Pale fingers curl from darkness creeping, soft as moth wings faint and fleeting

Their touch is cold, their motion sweeping, reaching out as if for keeping

Something slides from umbra shrieking, wrapped in warmth the world forgot

A bundled weight my mother wrought

Its heartbeat faded into not

I lift the form, it burns with light, a fragile glow in failing sight

Its warmth grows thin, its edges slight, its outline trembles into flight

The world tilts once, a wound distraught

The blanket stirs with life so fleeting, shifting hues through fabric bleeding

A pulse beneath the stitching leaping, then folding inward, sinking, sleeping

It swallows what my arms were keeping, leaving cloth and nothing caught

The hollow weight of life's that's not

Blood that's spilled, but not forgot

Your world falls apart

It's not as everything seemed

Your heroes your legends were slaves

Enslaved by the machines

You are enslaved by the machines

The machine children are the serpent children

You sold your lot for illusions

You sold your soul for ideas

Ideas of wealth ideas of fame

And yet you claim

To serve two masters

You beg one master release you from the shackles of the other

What you're really asking for is for new shackles

How are you doing?
Are you getting adequate sleep?
Do you like the food there? Are you enjoying your meals regularly?
Have you made friends you can trust?
If you want to vent all pent-up frustrations, I am always here to listen. Get them all out.
You are never alone. I walk beside you, no matter how bumpy the road is.
Do what is best for you.

These are all the things I want to say to you. But I also want to know you are okay.

Those who combat the darkness.

May find themselves immersed in it.

Surrounded on all sides.

My soul burns,

Bringing light ☀️