Good day folks! 🌼
Catch me this Sunday at Social!
I'll be performing Moonshot along some new stuff! 💜
Click here for location
👆🏽👆🏽👆🏽👆🏽
#moonshot #dubstep #electronic #don #event
Catch me this Sunday at Social!
I'll be performing Moonshot along some new stuff! 💜
Click here for location
👆🏽👆🏽👆🏽👆🏽
#moonshot #dubstep #electronic #don #event
An ancient friend of my heart, yeah her.
My death and my rise. The reason why I began to explore beyond my scope, the answers to my spirit before it found its self and knew it was already full. The reason I want to listen to Almaz yeHarerewan over and over again like I need no words any more, put my pen down for good and start listening to the quirks in her voice.
My death and my rise. The reason why I began to explore beyond my scope, the answers to my spirit before it found its self and knew it was already full. The reason I want to listen to Almaz yeHarerewan over and over again like I need no words any more, put my pen down for good and start listening to the quirks in her voice.
The wait until it hists and makes sense,
an artist, proclaimer of the extent of reality, paints a picture of allegories and reflections of profound everything, keeps quiet in creation, chaos and peace. The observer, the living embodiment of said reality waits to live out the meaning and later speaks the meaning within the self, the whispers of great epiphanies filled with suffering and memories finally understanding and creating more new meaning to the proclaimed present ahead of time. Do we see, do we see the artist? Or are we mere predictors of symbols, judges before witnessing the crime of passion? Does that make us prisoners of the mind or time?
Why are we looking for meaning, before living it?
an artist, proclaimer of the extent of reality, paints a picture of allegories and reflections of profound everything, keeps quiet in creation, chaos and peace. The observer, the living embodiment of said reality waits to live out the meaning and later speaks the meaning within the self, the whispers of great epiphanies filled with suffering and memories finally understanding and creating more new meaning to the proclaimed present ahead of time. Do we see, do we see the artist? Or are we mere predictors of symbols, judges before witnessing the crime of passion? Does that make us prisoners of the mind or time?
Why are we looking for meaning, before living it?
You made me feel and
I wanted love to be selfish.
For once, I wanted you
with all the fears and pain,
for what is love without a hurting
lullaby that wants to be played?
Feels empty and incomplete
without a touch, your touch...
Why does it feel like that?
Why should I need you,
when I can't admit I want you?
How can I want you,
when I stand in my own way?
How can I move aside?
Babe, it is far from a disguise, I hold
secrets that paralyze my feet from stepping into the land of mediocrity and yet
I can only allow your beautiful eyes to see me stuck in an average quicksand.
Yes, I can ask you the same question. Why do you want to stand in with me?
Do you call that a disguise?
I bare unholy truths that leave me bare to
words that can only make sense within my profound shallowness,
lives I haven’t lived playing like a broken record
whispering “you’ve been here”
as if my own regrets don’t tell me enough.
I’m still waiting, my love,
my melancholic anemoia.
I wanted love to be selfish.
For once, I wanted you
with all the fears and pain,
for what is love without a hurting
lullaby that wants to be played?
Feels empty and incomplete
without a touch, your touch...
Why does it feel like that?
Why should I need you,
when I can't admit I want you?
How can I want you,
when I stand in my own way?
How can I move aside?
Babe, it is far from a disguise, I hold
secrets that paralyze my feet from stepping into the land of mediocrity and yet
I can only allow your beautiful eyes to see me stuck in an average quicksand.
Yes, I can ask you the same question. Why do you want to stand in with me?
Do you call that a disguise?
I bare unholy truths that leave me bare to
words that can only make sense within my profound shallowness,
lives I haven’t lived playing like a broken record
whispering “you’ve been here”
as if my own regrets don’t tell me enough.
I’m still waiting, my love,
my melancholic anemoia.
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Please vote for my shortlisted Poetry & Literature entry for the Art for Advocacy campaign that promotes the dangers of gender-based violence and toxic culture, by liking and sharing on Instagram! ❤️🙏🏽
https://www.instagram.com/reel/C0PY2sSN5pZ
https://www.instagram.com/reel/C0PY2sSN5pZ
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don
Don – The Fabric of Existence
Hey!
By an awesome person's request 😊🙏🏽, you can now add your comments and share what you think about my pieces here.
💙🖖🏽
By an awesome person's request 😊🙏🏽, you can now add your comments and share what you think about my pieces here.
💙🖖🏽
Know, where your loyalty lays.
See not with the lens but with the gentle pressure some call from within,
For beyond doors of certainty lays an unforgiving reality, words and noise that run from claiming their truth, teeth that smile from pain and pain clothed with fabulous denial, looking but not seeing through the mirrors that push true back to you.
The same words that once let the world be, became triggers of a scopeless riffle, aiming with suppositions and pulled with the same absolution that are bound to turn into "What have I done?" once the mirrors polish themselves. But till that fortunate day, may the universe help you count the rounds cause I hope you don't find me one day to tell you the ones I've buried.
See not with the lens but with the gentle pressure some call from within,
For beyond doors of certainty lays an unforgiving reality, words and noise that run from claiming their truth, teeth that smile from pain and pain clothed with fabulous denial, looking but not seeing through the mirrors that push true back to you.
The same words that once let the world be, became triggers of a scopeless riffle, aiming with suppositions and pulled with the same absolution that are bound to turn into "What have I done?" once the mirrors polish themselves. But till that fortunate day, may the universe help you count the rounds cause I hope you don't find me one day to tell you the ones I've buried.
Who am I to write about pain when I’m the one rowing the boat onto land?
You would think one who was done walking on sharp pebbles and rocks would learn enough to stay in the sea or at least wear armor to protect the sole when one wants it all bare, but the sole can only bleed. Once a man hurts himself on land, who is he to think he can return to the sea? Salt that once flavored his life soon turns to a terror one cannot behold because the sole that once became numb from the bruises and cuts now morphs into a reminder of every last rock it ever stood on. Should I have stayed in the sea? asks a dried-up wanderer who had forgotten to tell apart his sole from his spirit.
Who is he to write about pain?
You would think one who was done walking on sharp pebbles and rocks would learn enough to stay in the sea or at least wear armor to protect the sole when one wants it all bare, but the sole can only bleed. Once a man hurts himself on land, who is he to think he can return to the sea? Salt that once flavored his life soon turns to a terror one cannot behold because the sole that once became numb from the bruises and cuts now morphs into a reminder of every last rock it ever stood on. Should I have stayed in the sea? asks a dried-up wanderer who had forgotten to tell apart his sole from his spirit.
Who is he to write about pain?
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A life you wouldn't begin to understand with that mind and heart.
They said Jesus taught in parables. Let me tell you why.
If I said I found Jesus along time ago and that he was the saviour of mankind, then come to conclude it was all a game of alegories, a play for a lonely heart, then soon after, lived a life of seeing with not the eye, waltzed with good and bad, saw words come flying off paper and realized why, when and how it came to have an understated importance within sentences and marks, and I once more claim I knew nothing even when I saw the face of God, you would still say, Thank God he found room for Jesus in his heart.
You worry I'm infront of you when I'm at your back cause I left a mirror infront of you one day and you can't help but to focus on the reflections you see behind your shoulders.
That's the problem you see. You think I am playing you when I'm playing the game life intended it to be and you see me smiling. You asked me to read so I brought my mirror and yet you're throwing unseen rocks to break it. You still think I'm the mirror.
So I got tired of having to buy new ones so I kept it in my room, cleaning it with papers worth more than mine.
They said Jesus taught in parables. Let me tell you why.
If I said I found Jesus along time ago and that he was the saviour of mankind, then come to conclude it was all a game of alegories, a play for a lonely heart, then soon after, lived a life of seeing with not the eye, waltzed with good and bad, saw words come flying off paper and realized why, when and how it came to have an understated importance within sentences and marks, and I once more claim I knew nothing even when I saw the face of God, you would still say, Thank God he found room for Jesus in his heart.
You worry I'm infront of you when I'm at your back cause I left a mirror infront of you one day and you can't help but to focus on the reflections you see behind your shoulders.
That's the problem you see. You think I am playing you when I'm playing the game life intended it to be and you see me smiling. You asked me to read so I brought my mirror and yet you're throwing unseen rocks to break it. You still think I'm the mirror.
So I got tired of having to buy new ones so I kept it in my room, cleaning it with papers worth more than mine.
