Climbing Mountains A Poem About Living Out Your Dreams and Believing in Yourself The road rose in the distance insistent on wrapping around the towering mountain like twine. At its feet stood a shrine dedicated to the drowsy dreamer, the tired thinker, the sleepy schemer who had journeyed all this way only to have disbelief poison the mind. And yet doubt wasn't left behind in even the faithful and courageous traveler who had begun the climb. For the apex stood painfully high; the road wound for miles surrounded by ledges where dreams fall and die. Victory is only tasted by the dreamer who doesn't look back and doesn't get offtrack by looking too far forward. But who is purposeful in their impact right here, right now perfectly content in the present moment. One step after another feeling the ground beneath their feet, faithfully carrying their dream on their shoulders until their vision is realized and complete. The future is only actualized by those who realized eons ago that the future is bound by the way we carry ourselves in the present. It's what we learn during the ascent that makes the climb worth doing; never in the need for recognition and achievement. Wake up, you drowsy dreamer! Rouse yourself from your delusions! Shake yourself from the critics illusions and the conclusion that you'll never find your way! For the journey begins and ends the way we begin and close each day. Justin Farley
Inkblood – A Poem about the Writing Process
Beneath a pale, July moon
An ancient manuscript sits
Illuminated by candlelight,
Its pages gently rustling in the breeze
Blowing behind the curtains of the nearby window.
The ink is faded beneath
Layers of time and age,
But the wisdom remains
Scribbled in rhymes,
Written eons ago by some old sage.
But tonight it’s voice has a reader –
A man of sandy, blond hair
Ponders over your verses
And reflects on the meaning of your lines.
And like magic, the grime vanishes,
the words sparkle, and come to life.
Your cold, decomposed, long lifeless corpse
May only be fertilizer to the tongues of roots,
But your blood still flows and pulses
Through the pages you stained black with blood from your pen.
The body may have an expiration date,
But thoughts, words, and ideas have no end.
We live on through the pages we inhabit –
Awake to the reader’s touch,
Soar the skies once more, high
On some incomprehensible magic like pixie dust.
I deposit my heart of pains, joys, loves, and flames
Into the safe guard of your keeping.
My receipt is a word count
That compounds with the interest of each reader’s heart.
-Poem Written by Justin Farley
Pic. – onlanka.com