my winter retreat was lonely
flurries turned into storms
dark skies seemed always
cold bit me every second
ice through my veins stiffened from life
sharpen gales to cut me away
I was polar from everything
sitting barren
until her voice
her light
all that warmth from beyond
chiselled me free of that void capsule
I am her sun
she is my days
It is cold where I linger
my body numbs to something sharp
all I can do is watch like I am in the clouds
only I walk amongst those but they don’t see me
heart beating so fast it deafens any cry I make
the world goes around with me no longer attached
because I float between realms of real and dreams
waking up in neither
any rest I get is a gift
like cheddar to keep me in hiding
away, under… behind
on this journey along an unmarked trail
in a story between the lines
This fallen leaf. A symbol that change is necessary sometimes to achieve further growth. – Ash
white
white everywhere
no walls
no floor
no ceiling
just white
am I touching anything
am I alive
where is the door through which I come
did I walk through by will
is this punishment for the black
is this void now my penance
I feel no love
I feel no loss
where are my memories
tell me what sin lead me here
I can’t see in this light
because of my darkness
Lying awake in the dares of the night
between the seconds of darkness that it created
anxious, with a pulsing heart
a sweaty grip
gripping tightly so wishing for light
I watch the shadows and silhouettes patrol
alone by vicinity
crowded by bonded blood
the air steals my voice
blankets smother my breath
sounds muffle the familiar
it’s only me now
in a world of living nightmares
it was always only me
this life is a puzzle
with many different pieces
let me throw away the black ones
so something beautiful can be complete
When I see your tears
a million mirrors reflect
pain inside of me
Take me to a Spring
where every day was as young as I
and the sun would come winking through the curtains
Once upon a time,
there was an angry little elf.
Who thought of absolutely no one,
but of only himself.
He’s always so mad,
which made the other elves very sad,
with his complaints that work, work, work,
was all they ever had.
Even his friends,
would call him mean and selfish.
“Why are you not nice?”
“Why are you not elfish?”
No matter what they say,
he swore he’d never listen,
because ending the holidays,
had become his evil elf mission.
my love for you is like a book with stolen pages
beautiful words erased
deleted lines…replaced
everything’s torn from the very bind
words rewritten that were never mine
an unknown author with a tale of a broken heart
spends his lonely days with nowhere to start
his pen runs dry
there’s nothing more to capture
in this tragic love story without its final chapter
It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moments passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.
– Vita Sackville-West
Earth To Ash 