Returning to Paradise

Stroking the texture to feel on the keys
I missed every day I was within the streets;
hustling money to rest in a bed,
though every new day, I wished I was dead.

What is a life
when there is no joy,
what is a life
when your father’s no more,
what is a life
when you’re only a toy,
what is a life
when you pray for your gore.

The answer to such
is there is no rush
to taste on the life
that feels of such strife,
where trust is not found
and lies are around
to knock one off feet
and live on the street.

Yet there is a hope
and fruit for this man
that learned how to cope
with trials in land.

My father did pass
who I loved so dearly
yet I must fight on
so he can rest cheerly.

There were such bold lies
that brought me surprise
but I do not feed
the hatred some need.

My computer died,
my soul had then cried,
yet fight for this love
is what I have done.

So here I return,
to the paradise I know
where bliss will be earned
with every new row
of love from the keys
I feel with such ease
and press to help show
my writing will grow.

The new job I have
is what I will keep
for it has brought love
in knowing to teach,
it also has brought
a love to my life
I kiss every day
and rest in her sights.

She keeps me in joy,
even though we annoy; on occasion.

Yet the scales of this joy
far outweigh the gurr
that can make us stir
and our happiness coy.

We never forget
that we are both blessed
to be with each other
and call ourselves lovers.

Happiness was distant
and sadness was instant,
but fighting for better
has calmed down the weather.

Returning to paradise
was never a dream,
it was only a goal
that has been achieved.

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Finding it

What to write
what to write;
my mind is a blank
while my thoughts are in flight.

I listen to a beauty
that pulls along my tears
without the possibility
of reciting what I hear.

It continues to laugh at me
while I try and make it pretty
yet I continue to take a bath
in the wrath of filthy mush.

Applause may be heard
from those who enjoy my attempts,
yet my comfort is absurd
since it never returns the gift.

Ambition continues to push forward
until my mind is left in a disposal,
but this ambition is never a coward
because there’s always a new proposal.

Eager fingers linger above the keys
while my soul is praying on its knees
for any type of creativity
to fill my persistence with glee.

Yet this passion is usually hiding
and laughing at this little game,
for it is always hard siting
what I’ll eventually turn into shame.

Practice is what is needed
in order to be greeted
with a feeling of completion
over these tattered little creations.