The vociferous agitation no longer materializes into telephone calls to mom and close friends venting of how the disaster has hit, or how has the negative comment of bad souls hurt my very poetic essence…but now, the irritable angriness is kept inside, in an internal burning furnace I call mine, surrounded and shielded with my own medications made of my strong soul.
Now I know I have became mature, now I know that I absorb but react with great calculated mutiny if needed, and cry but in an acquiescent voice I call serenity.
It is kept and dealt by me solely, I know where my ship wants to sail, and I know how I need to feed those chirping free birds so they can fly higher.
And I know this eternal, internal furnace will stay, but can at times be put off with the gentleness of beauty of heavens and earth, of inspiration and reality, and the very strength to look forward from an optimist lens that tomorrow I can have a whole green garden inside me, I call peace.
مكتوب # 25
5 years ago