This heart to love — abrupt,
a door slammed open in the storm.

No warning, no gentle knock,
just the rush of something that's
too vast to hold.

And this face, a gallery of what remains:
a canvas carved by wounds, a battlefield’s
aftermath; a work of art painted by scars —
proof that breaking is its own design.

angels dance in the inferno
of creativity
untouched by it's heat
just illuminated in flame
while I stumble through
a forest
with trees I couldn't bring
to life on a page
but Blake in his divine
madness
saw angels in the branches

On the corner of your pages
I'll leave not my name
Nor my wretched face,
But a word of thanks

You let me read your stories
Shared to me your worries;
I somehow became part
Of your wonderful art

I would be greatly honored
If you saw my crooked words
And remember those times
That once our pages aligned—

Where laughters are easy to find
So did our cries and whines.

our canvases were born
from chaos at midnight.
colour spilling with the smoke
of cigarettes waiting
patiently in the tray.
we wove them in
with the brushstrokes
then let it breathe
so the magic would dry.

'darkness is coming',
dark blue across white
a bird slurping
rainwater from petals.
or something like that.
art is supposed to
make you feel something.
ours wasn't there to be nice.

one day,
it wasn't there at all.

i came home,
and found them gone —
shredded and torn.
the reminder,
that hands crafted them
that wouldn't caress you,
was unbearable.

i'm sorry.
that i shouted at you.
that i couldn't respect
you needed space,
a clear head
away from the clutter
that came with me.

i would have done the same.
we don’t get to choose
who we let in,
and who we love.
the only choice we have
is whether to erase it
slowly,
or all at once.

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.