my little pretty woman,
call'd a loser by old'r men & women—
But in a precious heart,
she wonderfully stands.

꩜ ݁₊ ⊹ .𓃠 ݁˖ .❨

Behind the gold wings, her emotional voice sings;
'What a woman I could be, If they'd just let my soul be free.

In fire and water, is for my eternally patience,
Thought I'm deemed ugly, my quill begs to create beauty.

D-don't.. w-wanted
t-to be... p-perpect!
Wanted to be.. have
simple princess traits,
Nor a ******* witch...
Wanted to..be..a princess..
of people's hearts..'

&,
she saw an ancient chair with her veiny hands,
spreading her face, as she breathes so deep,

&,
By an acrid pain,
doth throwback;

O’ my little pretty woman, as I see thine eyes so hard,
With thy tears doth marks as sounds a celestial star,

&,
In the arm of
the vintage wall, sparks;

No colors, no grey arc, your beauty never scared—
Never ever scared me, thou art a sacred heart,

&,
Watching you
cry is an art.

— candychristian, 1968

A painter paints a canvas full of pictures;
A picture paints a moment trapped in time.
A poet writes a poem to be pictured;
A poem paints a picture in the mind.

The end of certainty is not the end of the world,
but the dawn of a deeper vision.
We believed the earth was solid, the heavens unshaken,
the laws eternal and unmoving.
Yet beneath every stone lies movement,
within every silence—an echo of change.

Certainty was our shelter,
but also our prison.
It closed the doors of imagination,
it chained the infinite to the finite.
Now the walls have fallen.
We see the universe not as a machine,
but as a mystery—
a flowing river of becoming.

The end of certainty is the beginning of freedom.
To live without anchors,
to walk among paradoxes,
to welcome uncertainty as the companion of truth.
In the vast sky of unknowing,
we discover the stars of possibility.

Here begins our journey—
from the ruins of the absolute
to the open horizon of the infinite.

I am an imperfect shape; abstract

Sometimes
Poetry comes
Like a slap
Across my face.

It keeps bothering me,
Begging to be written.

And I go,
“Ok… here we go.”
I’m channeling now.

I’ve been thinking lately—
I don’t understand how it can be:
literature so full of ornate words,
classical music tangled in
odd notes and fractured rhythms,
bitter wine too dry for
an untrained palate,

and a forest—
dense with trees and shrubs,
all intertwined,
chaotic yet each in its own place.

At first, there is no beauty in these things.
You must train for it—
breathe deeply—
to see that in all this bitterness,
this strangeness,
this confusion,
there lies beauty.

Not beauty in itself,
but in the knowing—
that you must live through it
to move past the first impressions,
and reach that moment of enchantment
that steals your breath,
when your heart beats differently
because it has caught a treasure
most eyes would miss.

The bad wine turns good
once you swallow it.
The forest becomes a clearing
when you walk through it.
The symphony becomes melody
once you learn to respect
the time of things.

Yes—appreciation is
respecting the time of things.

Sometimes you must read a text
and let it settle into you.
Sometimes you must listen to music
and let the notes caress you
until your eyes fill with tears.
Sometimes you must taste
the “bad” wine
to dismantle your own walls.

I am so many, many parts
Of the same broken vase
I hold my weight
Disproportionally
And tilt
Asymetrically
I'm still art
Some of the pieces have been mend
Some of the lines are liquid gold
But we all hold
The pain
Compartmentalized
Surgically removed the warmth
From the heart and
The sad
From the mouth and
The pain
From the brain and
Surgically scatterend them across
Suppose
Memory is always one to be dead weight
I am the surgeon
I'm one
Unique and
Worth the same