This irritating ping ping ping

The world is so noisy.
How do you hold onto that quiet, small voice within,
When everything and everyone around you is screaming,
Pounding on your head for information and attention?

I look back in sadness, seeing a love connection I had, that felt more alive,
Not because of anything special I did, but just because love decided to break through.
Have you ever been in a tunnel, yelled out, and heard your own voice: echo, echo, echo:
And so the world around me, it echoes, echoes, echoes.

Even my own brain keeps dripping like a leaky faucet.
This irritating ping ping ping.
I want a Love to override all this, somehow overwhelm my broken circuits.
The dying are revived with an intense electric shock.
Can the spirit do the same to my spiritual dullness?

auralspace: The Ghost

auralspace: The Ghost: "Tomorrow I have to face a dead man He lives in me But in memory Alone. It's like some kind of face-off. A duel. A chess game. That's ..."

The Ghost

Tomorrow I have to face a dead man
He lives in me
But in memory
Alone.

It's like some kind of face-off.
A duel. A chess game.
That's how men look at it anyhow.
But me I'm winding down, my teeth are grinding, my neck is tight.
Logically, I am clear.
But the ghost has returned.

Breathing and a Pulse

It all boils down to this: breathing, and a pulse.
You walk: you breathe and your heart beats.
In moving, the air flows and the heart pumps.
In perseverating, the inner life get stuck.
Thoughts swell, like a traffic jam on a freeway, ideas congested, smoke distorting vision,

It all boils down to this: breathing, and a pulse.
Even stepping backwards, you will still be going somewhere.
You may pause, but only for a moment.
In over-analyzing, you just hash over the same props again and again
Emotions dull, and tie themselves together, like the strings of two kites that have collided.

It all boils down to this: breathing, and a pulse.
Not always natural, you may be pre-occupied
You are part of a larger universe that needs your actions in order to expand
Your life is a gift, and your living well
Is a gift to the God that made you.

The angels speak

Crawling through speakers
And chemical elixers
I found myself in a gold mine of personal fortune
The angels appraised me that I had forsaken my duties
But there cries were sweet in that high tone that angels speak to one another in, more like singing....

Under the old maps I had saved before the invention of electronic directions
There was the sound of a tree just standing
The leaves were licking the bark
The moon shone
The blinking of the planets distracted me

If you've lived in a place where all you smell is hot concrete
The wind in your face is a welcome reprieve
It's like God talking to you.