The word potential is one of self sabotage.
It is dedicated to those unable to put their dreams to work.
Potential is a word given to the indicated who are poised to have talent but no drive, ambition but no discipline.
Potential is given to the abundant group of people who are able to breathe but never live life.
Potential.
A word made to create your grave before you've died.
I haven't figured out how to stay away from the trap.
However, a promise to myself is that I will do more then breathe.

When now becomes never
and fists remain clenched
through a heart distance silenced
macerated between fingers
in disconnected chunks of purity

When now becomes never
under the weight
of broken promises
fractured dreams still glimmer
like a sharpened knife in the sun

When now becomes never
days turn decades of disillusion
the tiniest lifeline of hope
slicing through every breath
the cruelest kindness
aspirating the viscous memory of emotion

When now becomes never
the beacon of a smile
fades into the darkness
that always surrounds it

When now becomes never
love lives on behind empty eyes
that hide a soul given
when never was never an option

Think of your choice........
Pencils draw only sketches............

Don't forget to kiss her
If you find her standing alone
During uproar in the house
And none is close to her
To care her sobs and sighs.

Remember she is beauty:
Honey drizzles from her lips
Water sparkles from her cascade-hair
Butterflies rest on her delicate cheeks
And birds swing on her branches-hands.

Remember she is our beloved
Who loves her much, but we are being selfish.

Hold her tightly
Till they come to their senses
And hug her with much cheerfulness.

The earth leaked, not roof
The bodies floated, not straws
We wept, even animals

Poem
Is
A
Half fried chicken....
When it is right time it is fried again.
Then it is finished.

My child doesn't jump to images
He rummages one or two of his taste

To much degree. Yesterday he found
A piece of a beautiful deer,

Running upward the hill
Ignorant of water, rushhing high.

Creeping to me , that night,
Under the warm blanket
He put up in a surprising way:
Can we run without moving
And still reach the desired place?
Why is that deer there
So nonchalant, though no progress?
Closer to him I did say:
Life is about movement
But paintings cheat us in such a way
That we fall into a ditch of beauty
And forget rhythm of the clock..

Metaphor is the boat that floats on water but carries one into the sky...