Skip to main content

I SHOULD BE SPEAKING


A form of speech doesn’t satisfy when the spirits begin to speak. 

I twist around this world like I'm somehow disconnected from truth when it is truth that should be the only thing that I believe that connects me, not fear and heaven all wrapped up in a neat little package deal. The earth, I believe, is eternal, and it's also the only known paradise. Battling my guilt was the one thing that you can bet I battled until love came through me and granted me eternity through my belief.

You didn't just have to seek it, my child, you had to find it. It's the original seed with a message of salvation.

Irrational fear is of my mind, therefore I can simply dispense with hell as a destination of some unimaginable void, a tactic of fear, a fear tactic to get me to forget what’s beneath my feet, beneath my love when truth comes to call on the one of my imagination.

Let it go if there is any notion of fear. Let it go if there are wars and battles and murders and rapes and thievery and the craven stems of war. Let it go if it’s tangled up in death and pain and suffering, just let it all go and remember that I'm a child of heavenly earth and love. I'm a part of creation, inseparable from love so thank creation, and leave it at that, so I can spend most of my time taking care of and worshiping what I know.

Look at her! Please, Mark Richard Prime, search the depths of your heart, and then imagine a greater tragedy. Sir William never came close to the amount of suffering that must have been utilized in order to have brought love to turn away. 

Shame on me. Shame on my roll in this suicide. This is the authentic definition of tragic, but still in the first act.

Don't think on it, that's what's gotten you most out of sorts all of this time, thinking beyond your limits…

I’m merely a messenger to the spirit of love, a man, a vessel and I've often been a collective breath of stale air that’s rehearsing that I might utter love…



© 2012 by mark richard prime


Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

ROOT OF

"For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs." __1 Timothy 6:10 It is MONEY, not the LOVE of it that is the issue, the true problem. Love, in and of itself, is never a problem, WANT and NEED, or better yet- the WANT and the conundrum of its very REQUIREMENT for our survival IS the problem, it's creation and our blind use of it is logically the ROOT. In other words, let's leave LOVE out of it altogether and deal with the facts instead. If money were not made by us as a requirement for our survival, we'd find ourselves in a much better position to argue of its need and our want of it. MRP Peace and Love © 2015 Mark Richard Prime
Post a Comment
read the poem
........•SHRIEKING MACHINE•........                  •HEAD-LINES•                           •RIP•     ---(“Russian missiles blast Ukrainian military academy and hospital, killing more than 50, officials say”)---    There are no more lessons to learn here, no more beds to hold the human wounded, just missile’s shrieking their grotesque ode, The Death of Humankind! RIP, children of God…    ---(“Hundreds attend Mercer Island vigil, march for murdered Israeli hostages”)---    Dear mourners, this is the brutal vacuum of a genocidal, terror-filled, indiscriminate war-machine made of fear and we are all hostages to its deafening roar! RIP, children of God…    ---(“10-year-old allegedly confesses to fatally shooting 82-year-old man and his daughter”)---    I must confess, this is part of war’s shrieking, children lost with a we...
Post a Comment
read the poem

sdrawkcaB nruT (Turn Backwards)

I have been witness to the four pillars and see no reason to carry death there. Doesn’t the world know that life moves for more than just the sons of Abraham? O! I see the stunned throats floating by in the dusk to their stiff-limbed sleep as metal rains down over the Jordan’s western prophet, children dying there. I am here, waiting, breathing in the dusk under the shadow of the patriarch, asking, can we again build the shrine inside the soul and leave our flesh to time? © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman
32 comments
read the poem