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
The farther I travel, the closer I am to myself. – Andrew McCarthy
Another glorious day, the air as delicious to the lungs as nectar to the tongue. – John Muir
Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light. – Theodore Roethke
Earth To Ash 