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n jacobs Oct 2020
Recreate... Re-create.

She told me that distraction is an art from vile thoughts, the ones that circle 'round, drag me down into the ***.

Recreate... Re-create.

Not distraction from the sort of thing that truly needs attention, but getting back to who I am, a spiritual ascension.

Place those wings upon my back, we all are holy creatures; show me what's inside your soul, the finest of all features.

If your demons drag you down, chain you up, and circle 'round,
Pull yourself up out the cauldron, fight and stand your ground.

'Cause in addition to holy talks is something that has power,
Re-create by recreating, and bloom your long lost inner flower.
n jacobs Jan 2020
Do whats you.

Don't overthink it.

If it makes the heart pound and the head ache, its not natural.

What's beautiful is natural. Natural as the waves meet the shore.

So when I begin to pound and ache, I stop.
Release and breathe, this isn't meant for me.

And what will be, will be. God has a plan for me.

And I'll just let it come to me.
I can't be it all.
So ill stand tall, and listen for my souls call.
n jacobs Jan 2020
Time is like sand.
Course here, smooth there.

Watching it slide down the choke point.
Don't slide so fast,

slow down...

I need it to slow so I can use it in my peace.  

But my peace is in
Taking time as it comes, taking time as it goes.

Passive; active in good time.

It was never about fighting, struggling, striving,
It was always about releasing, accepting, and allowing

So the spirit could do its good work in me.
n jacobs Nov 2019
Silence is an art, and agenda is a science.

That's why I paint pictures of life, from this lonesome knoll,
Think thoughts of privacy in this holy state,

And keep them.
n jacobs Nov 2019
What's best is what feels like home.

Stuck between two sides of the fence,
Like I wanna jump, but I can't.

Indecision has kept me here, posted.
Straddled between the heart and the head.
This picket fence appears to be the promises of good life.
But its just a stain of white deception, holding me...

Waiting...

Waiting to live.  

But I know what to do,
Choose the side that goes to my backyard.

Choose what feels like home.
My struggle with anxiety and indecision.
n jacobs Sep 2019
Ragged, flimsy, thin, spotted card.
Creased with the tales of time.

Jaws equipped for a blow,
Ears higher than the mouth, just as God placed them.

Face structured like stone,
On the narrow shoulders of a boy, we lean.

And of all the 'siła' endowed to our name,
The windows gently lead to the soul inside.

Carry, drag, and crawl.
But never let an utter of hardship leave thy chest.  

Like a ‘Schnadel’,
More gold surfaces, as time does what it does.


"Spread your wings as I have told you,
God bless you, I love you."

Love from 'Polska' is different than words,
More doing than talking, build a house like the birds.


Stay true to 'Wiara' like a true ****** would,
John Paul set example, follow, do good.

"Fight like you’re dying, please lose the sad frown,
‘cause you can’t let the ******* get you down."

What a name you uphold,
Humble pride that is shown,
And like a good yellowhammer,
'Papcio' always returns home.
A poem written upon seeing an old photo of my Polish dad as a young child. Our last name, Trznadel, translates directly to 'yellowhammer' in Polish, which is a bird that gets more gold feathers as it ages.

siła-strength. Wiara- faith Papcio-papa
n jacobs Sep 2019
Have you ever had that moment?
You’re standing on the mountain peak, for that one moment.

For that one moment, I can almost hear angels singing,
I can see the true beauty.

And it isn’t just the vast sky above me dotted with clouds,
It isn’t just a waterfall, or a desert scene of hot white rock,
Or majestic tress standing tall as to say, “I am”.
Or the stars coming together with their mother moon to almost dance in the twilight,
And say, “I am here, and so are you, and this is IT.”

It isn’t just as if I’m walking, down a long dirt path,
Lined with fireflies, and the sweet breeze accompanying me like
An old friend that I never met but somehow know.

It’s something to do with the birds chatter, and the child’s laugh,
The bliss of some sort of innocence, a lack of need for things
That I can have, but don’t bring me above the mortal, material, mundane.

No real understandable words, nothing really sets it off,
But it goes, as a shooting, pure assemblage
But its followed by deep chills, and some surrenderance upward.
Some serene, almost lonesomeness,
Yet accompanied by all the souls of the world.

I’m not self, but everything,
For one fraction of timelessness

and it’s almost like it all makes sense
It's set off by the scene of nature, and brings a split second of chills and unified peace.
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