I’m done with shame
I'm done with pain
It messes with my purity
And with my Identity

I'm done with holding myself back
For projections of the past
Right now the present moment
Is the one I want to last.

Courage, freedom and excitement
Curiosity, amazement
They're all my gateway to this new life
Where I'm living and I fly
And the shapes up on my sky
Come and pass, rise and subside
Kindly, unafraid to hide
For acceptance awaits
Those who know that all the greats
Lived with emotions running high
In front of their pen and their eye
Now, why would I
Not let the wind
Blow through my soul just a bit
Or as long as it’s needed
For the peace
I seek.

_M.

And yes they were the best of times ,
of love and tears and
memory .
Where dreamt I slept black
granite slab deep ,
cold and sans regret .
☆
Night-birds sang above my
head ,
dead lovers called my
name .
While in my lonely dreaming ,
perfect love became the grave .
☆
So despised without good
cause ,
I determined to sleep on .
The rider on white stallion
showed me poetry and
song .
☆
But when last came time to
leave that place ,
and journey beyond that
vale ,
I prayed for Him to keep me
fast ,
I prayed I would not fail .
☆
Attila said where he had
passed ,
no grass would ever grow .
It grew instead upon his grave
where children seeds
had sown .
☆
Now forging pathways to this
world ,
sacred numbers were my guides .
Moon rise over still water ,
where time holds back the
tide .

In a world of mass production
Creativity is gasping for air
Everything is accessible, looking
Identical to your next-door neighbor

Where are the artists?
Where are the seeds of creativity?

Let us light a beacon of hope
In an age of templates and clones,
Let this beacon of hope burn
Brighter than the sun;

Do not lose hope, A resurrection of
Creativity is upon us

If they could, if they won't
Steal my thoughts
That keep me company
It is like time stopped
Every thing fond of
Came to a stand still

If they could, if they won't
The stillness, the familiarness
of my surroundings
Squeeze the self into oblivion
But will they let me be

Writing is therapy
For the hollow and curious
I dream Ink Pots and quills
That is what stirs and thins
my viscous blood
If they could, if they ought
Let them know
I'm a seed

26th/August/2024