Homeless Happiness by Paul B. Peddie.

The sun hugged and kissed me, told me its time to rise,  and though I woke with physical pains, I was feeling rather happy inside. I wish I could sleep a little longer but from the sun's  warm kisses I could not hide. 

My stomach ached from the emptiness inside, but like a contagious yawn, my wide smile shun bright. Unsure of what the day has to offer, I keep a positive mind, after all, there must be a reason why I'm still alive. 

I might not have a roof to call my own, but in my thinking, this whole world is my own. Like a nomad I roam, calling everywhere my home, my daily search for food, and somewhere to rid the smell from my skin and my clothes. 

I ask of those more fortunate than myself, as they go about their complicated lives, I see some looking stressed to the core, I wonder how much harder could they have it, than the hardship I've known. Sometimes I strip them with my eyes, and get dressed in their clothes, to see what it would be like, to wear garments without holes.

Sympathy fills my eyes for all their heads that hang low, while I find reason to raise mine, the simplest of things makes my eyes glow. I give thanks for each day I make it through alive, finding food and trying to survive, if only they could see, how much more they have to be thankful for, they'd be even more happy than I'd ever be. 

Some say I'm mad, confused at why I'm smiling each day, why to face another day I feel glad, but if being sane means having so much and only complaining about more, then I wanna be insane forever, I sleep better even though its on the floor. 

By P. Peddie 

November19, 2014. 

Foofaraw by Paul B. Peddie.

Oh the price we pay, to live the way we live each day...  We all want to be "different",  yet we never seem to indagate the true meaning of such a lifestyle, or the road we're all headed. 

It's no longer about happiness, but about being "different" from others in the way we talk and the way we dress. Yet when the smoke starts to clear, few will see it clear, that in our fight to be "different" we are all just being the same. 

Our paths are set by what others think, by their opinions of the life everyone else lives. The clothes we wear, the color of our skin, the texture of our hair, the places we've been. We live to please, strangers and friends, yet we never consult who truly matters, ourselves... 

It has happened for so long now, that we truly don't know ourselves, for in our quest to be different, we've been busy being someone else. It will take some true soul searching, some silence, some time to ourselves, to see that some of us actually like the color blue, and not the color red. 

The color red was chosen when we found out that blue was taken by someone else, that same person from which we've been trying to be so "different", not realizing that obviously there aren't enough colors available for us to have one to ourselves, inevitably by everyone trying to be different, we are simply being alike and losing ourselves. 

Spend some time with the person that matters the most, find out the stuff you truly like, relax and be yourself, fear not critiques, friends nor foes, just live, truly start to live, that's when you'll see the difference...

By P.Peddie 

November 14, 2014. 

A Woman's Reparation - by P. Peddie

Her heart open, her legs open, her ears, her eyes, her arms opened, made known to you more than you even know yourself, all this in exchange for love, all this in exchange for the little you can give to compensate for more than she has to give. 

See she knows nothing but everything about you, your needs, your deeds and best believe your unknown qualities. She loses herself trying to gain what was promised at the inception of your bond, just the least of what you can give, not from your wallet but from your heart. 

She couldn't change the world, she couldn't make it like you wish, time after time she's thought about it, the words you utter in conversations you both have, the dreams you dream of the world you must have. She couldn't change it, because she didn't own the world, but she thought how she had a world of her own, and so she started there, she made it your own. She changed her world so it would suit you, she helped you into your clothes, the ones that best suites you. All this, in exchange for the least you could give, all this in exchange for things promised. 

Like a sidekick she's there, not stealing your shine but helping to pick up the little things you've left behind. "Honey here's your keys, don't leave your documents, don't forget to eat." 

Sometimes she cries, often times she wonders why, why can't she receive the love she deserves, why can't she receive the least of what you got, a kiss good night, a hand stretched forth, a listening ear, an absorber for her tears. She thinks about things she tries to forget, things she's only done because she thought it brought you happiness. 

It's almost 8, you're running kinda late, she dries her tears, hides her fears and finds her cape. She resumes her duties, her unpaid duties, her unappreciated, never duplicated, in the streets, beneath the sheets, her domesticated, duties. In a bid to one day receive, a woman's reparation. 

By P. Peddie

June 8, 2014.