Mother Hen and The Crooked Cock.

Birds of the feather flock,
Birds of one father may not,
The chicken in our coop:
Mother hen sat on twelve eggs,
Eight hatched,
Others stale.
Daily she walks the chicks,
Spots grain,
Selectively feeding them,
Warms them,
She has devotion,
Chicks and hen connected-
Conducting heat,
Sheltered under bulging wings,
Under the shadow dwelling secure.

All this while,
The cock roams freely,
A bird in display,
Majestic in stature,
Strongest of them all,
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!”,
He sends alarm.
The loose rooster wanders,
He spins around for copulations,
While hens their eggs daily lay,
He fends off the best grains,
Outcompeting weakling chicklings.

See how mother hen persists,
For she must raise her offspring,
And while the rooster crows all day,
He knows not what grain they eat,
And though he’s blessed with longer wings,
He spends his warmth alone,
Every chilly day and every dark cold night.
The rooster grooms,
The crooked cock is gloom.

6.1.19

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Ego Burst.

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There is something about feeling wanted,
That gives you powers of sorts,
To juggle around with hearts,
Your esteem peaks and you have control,
For once you forget the downside of up-
How it felt once upon a time,
When you were unpopular, a reject.

It is a priceless feeling, exciting even,
Like the world needs your approval to go round,
Like they should now add your name to the anthem,
Because you would sound great in the chorus,
Your value for self quickly appreciates,
You become a highly demanded commodity,
And begin to downplay others.

After a while your market may feel disappointed,
That you’ve become a spoilt commodity,
So some will leave for better quality substitute brands,
Beacuse clearly, you do not measure up.
Yes you may be full of yourself,
But you would be better scaling up, so style up!
Some customers may remain clueless,
But only for so long,
Because the stench of your spoil cannot be hidden anymore,
You will try to polish your surface,
Hoping that no one notices your stench,
But this fact will not last.

I have had a bad feeling about this feeling,
This feeling of you feeling wanted,
That bloats you up then sends you flying,
Till a blade of grass bursts your balloon,
Till you wake up from your somber dream,
And decide to sober up.
But I am afraid that you will have ran out of time,
If you keep waiting for your ego to be pricked,
Sometimes being regular and present like a pillow,
Is perfect condition for you to be wanted,
It’s about being present even when it’s dark and cold.

9.11.18

This is not a bad person – Just Drained

I want to lie on the couch tomorrow,
And binge on my favorite show,

The eerie silence feels painful to my ears. I am lying awake on my bed, exhausted but restless. I can feel the transformation in my bones. The tag of war has become vicious and the zombie within is winning.
I wake up early every morning and drag myself to the same routine. Before my eyes are fully open, it’s dark again. The daily spice no longer tastes good to my tongue.
Madam comes in at work and starts issuing commands.
“Do this and drop the attitude,” she says.
Clients come in and roll their eyes at me. Mine are heavy and I cannot lift them high enough to roll back. I want to thank them and ask them to come again, but my throat feels patchy. So I manage to mumble a dry cough. The client sneers and walks away.

I’M NOT A BAD PERSON – JUST DRAINED
I want someone to appreciate me for once,
See the work that I am doing as enough,
I want to lie on the couch tomorrow,
And binge on my favorite show,

And when my left side is sour,
I want to turn to the other one like a door,
Unless the whole village lights on fire,
Let no one move me even if it’s dire.

I want to have peace of mind,
To have no one else nag,
I know I’m not the 19 year old girl working overseas,
Or the neighbor’s son who became a doctor.

So let me sleep in peace,
When I get up I’ll write a story,
Maybe pick up a book and savor it slowly

Try this and trust,
Tomorrow I’ll have nowhere to hide my smile,
My eyes shall glitter at your arrival,
You shall call out and I shall indeed be glad to come.

©Cera Moon | Wisdom of Living Blog

Check out more from her at wisdomofliving.wordpress.com

Don’t forget to like, comment and share.

Read to death.

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I sat down 💺too long,
Then I lied on my bed,
Read with eyes wide open👀👀,
Squinted a little,
I’ve read the lines and in between the lines,📖
I’ve drown strokes and scribbled on my notes ✍
Then I stood up and read again,
The content still wide and diverse,
So I turned on music 🎶
Music notes floating around me,
Taking my notes straight to the brain,
Now my brain’s exhausted,
My mind strays from this subject,
To other less intense subjects,
Or more intense,
Then I realize that time’s gone,
Got to cool off from all the pressure 🛀

So I write to you.

Priceless!

Like an egg in a nest,
I in bed confound rest,

I lie on my bed,
Gazing at the ceiling,
In my candle-lit room,
With a warmth that comforts.

I stare into blank space,
Trying to make sense of shadows,
For a moment it’s a gallery,
With masterpieces only I can see.

My ears tune in to music,
Connecting to this life-giving song,
My soul is uplifted,
As jovial music rises still.

Like an egg in a nest,
I in bed confound rest,
It feels like a hearty hug,
All these- undeserved peace!

A bydweller explodes with laughter,
My cat meows sleepily,
My mellow mind rests,
And oh, it is priceless!
21.9.18

On The Other Side.

Now people on the other side weep,
Grievous not so much for selves,
But for us, people on this side.

GooglePics

There are people on the other side,
People who faces had,
Who to families belonged,
But who burn alone in a fire,
Tormented in eternal flames,
Unquenchable coals that fume.

These people once had lives,
They held on to believes,
They were husbands and wives,
See how sons visit their graves,
Daughters kiss photo frames,
Desiring to have one more chance,
To hold them once,
To hear their voice.

There are people on the other side,
And there are people on this side,
Now people on the other side weep,
Grievous not so much for selves,
But for us, people on this side.
Picture them with marred faces,
With dripping torn skins,
Reaching out with skinned arms,
Signalling us to downwards look.

Like Lazurus and the rich man,
They hold tales from earth,
They tried sending smoke signals,
From coals with flames that fume,
The crust could not clear a way,
Trying once and again,
But we can’t see it.

We people on this side,
Live too loud to listen,
We want better every time,
So we become daring,
We keep breaking rules,
As for Lazurus and the rich man,
Their’s is not a bestseller.