poetry

Charmed, I Was Sure

IMG_20170508_104706_429

Back before I became charming,
I thought I was a little charmed, true story.
I seriously thought because of my dreams as a child, by my teens & early 20’s, I was a witch,
completely taken by the concept, they lived what appeared a good lifestyle, not ugly like horror pictures displayed, but that’s not true either, because its an inside job.
I mean everyone wanted a supernatural ability, a hero mentality, a superpower, mine’s happened to be witches.
I was mesmerized looking at the movie Craft and Bewitched, Sabrina, even I Dream of Jeannie and Charmed on tv.
It was revealed to me then, it was just another method to programming, more measures to weaken strong mind’s..again.
——————————————————

I still have dreams that come true quite often, as well as insatiable unmatched, unexplained, salacious appetite, that in past turned the strongest minded man into a possessive, bumbling, ranting stalker, checking the ingredients of me, as the one before him had, hearing the same complimentary speech, after it’s unleashed .                            Between the dreams and my prowess , what other explanation was there..
That had to be the reason for the phophetic dreams, already detailed or when I didn’t like someone how they’d up and die,
it seemed, right?
But I always believed in the Most High God, so those around me questioned, the new ways, my young mind was thinking.
I prayed often,
was raised in church as a child.
So what was I doing with this brewing inside,
me?
The oil and candles were a different path I took, was it trying to snuff out,
my spiritual energy?
The tarot cards I threw away, because they wouldn’t, burn,
as I had began previously taking my show on the road,
reading futures and palms
for donations in turn.
I was trying to get a handle on the scandal, of my dreams,
to shape up and find other ways to analyze these,
visions, in ways that were crystal clear too me.
There wasn’t any other plausible cause,
in all those new awakenings,
and swaying off course,
and for what?
Some wiccan atmosphere in my way, on pause? Or, My voodooed poo-pie, that I feared giving because, it could get me killed in a jealous frenzy, when I fully released it’s tragic magic.
I became so deep inside myself.
I began seeing darkness cross my picture window outside,
but no one else would,
no airplane shadow or
helicopters in sight,
or Art Van’s moving truck parking to the right.
Yet somehow something dark, began decreasing my light.
I began speaking to God,
as often as possible.
Knowing fool well, the gifts of visioned dreams I obtained,
were of God’s following.
I worried sorrowfully
as new disturbances flowed,
growing
out of my element,
as they came, some hidden, some exposed.
Was I living a double life?
Cheating on my Saviour,
at the bewitching hour
with nocturnal’s night,
that enchanted my days?
Bringing forth a sinister force more compelling and spiteful my way? Something more powerful and larger than me, in height?
Was I walking backwards away, from the path, to my Father’s light?
Into darknesses riddle,
or was I an idiot, backsliding, simply caught up, in the middle?
Asking with nerve, to reverse the curse, inside my Creator’s,
already war torn, universe.
Unknowingly channeling for peace and riches,
but at what cost,
for my praise and soul always remained, His, but unlost.
So what gain could actually be disbursed?
I had to sit back, reaccess,
the error of my ways, and what had been rehearsed.
With half knowledge to dropping this issue fast, before my prayer’s went unanswered by my Savior who forgives repetively, last.
Simply brought on, due to what started as question’s to dreams, surmounting into a distasteful disastrous path.
Thanking God, for forgiving a sinner like me.
Besides I enjoy our relationship, I speak with I AM daily.
As for trying to be a witch in my youth, too needing to regroup,
with no longer proof, of that path.
As I laugh exposing an additional epic fail on my behalf, in me measuring and casting spells,
When the fact is, I’m awful at math.

b3344b2aa6d702c118f9ed9e22d25bd6.jpg
Poetry By Tamara Dorsey-Moore
Thinker on the Loose
Copyright (c) 2017 Reserved purposes intended.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s