poetry, writing and poetical images
Having been a closet writer since the age of twelve, it is prime time to allow some of these poetical musings to be spread into the minds of other folks. Please enjoy browsing through the collection of text based and image based surreal meanderings.
Maybe I'm allergic to a certain kind of sound,
The stuff that's shrill and cutting,
Maybe I'm resistant to a certain kind of soul,
That grates and grinds against me,
Sharpening my sides as I struggle.
Maybe I'm a running from a certin kind of face,
the growling, grovelling confidence, that suits the master race.
The Practice (I)
it couldn't be any more true,
or less in fact,
the fact of the matter,
is the matter doesn't matter,
it is the idea, that counts,
but the folk still want to feel,
and that's the reality- the realness,
that's why we drink and eat,
why we paint art in the streets,
why we make love, and make pain,
why we burn under suns or dance in the rain,
it's the living that means more than the idea in our minds,
feeling isn't possible, and the real isn't so real,
and the light seems so grey,
and then day after day,
it's hour upon hour,
of the same words in the head,
and all seems lost, and gone and dead.
and then BOOM!
the emptiness goes,
it‘s thrown aside and asunder in the magnificent haze,
and in the thrust and throws of living,
it's aliveness and air in lungs,
it's singing in the corridors and sweetness on the tongue,
it's sparkling, dizzy energy that smacks you in the heart.
Creating, giving,making, carving,
building worlds and being free.