His eyes shined
like stars in the midnight sky,
he is perfect.
This love is perfect.
The way he talks with his hands,
the way he walks when he stands,
the way he smiles at me,
he's so perfect to me.
The way we can talk for hours,
the way we kiss in the rain showers,
the midnight drives back to my house,
oh how I love him,
everything in life is so perfect to me
he is perfect.
The waves of those blurred mists
Are just calling for rhyming
But I told that I'm just a poor one
I can't really write poetic stuff,
Though I love to call it poetry in motion,
Oh! This gush, is what I'm scribbling
And not really always the sweet winds.
Those light steams just caressed,
Tried to cool me down, calm me,
Clasping my lids and just trying to listen
What it has to say to me,
I'm finding my solace,
In the purest rides of clouds.
Switching off the whirlpools,
These threads of air, resting me
Making me dip inside the slumbers of peace.
The waves of those blurred mists,
Are now what I'm dreaming.
Awake I'm scribbling.
And @err1585 at Mirakee.
Silver boulder nestled upon the grass,
As the surface collects the sheer sunlight.
This stone retains the warmth which does not last,
While my fingers against the hard stone write.
The rock absorbs cold air upon nighttime,
Adapts to each climate it is within.
Diverse foliage surrounds all which doth chime,
Sounds of nature are to beauty akin.
I rest upon the stone, feeling the air,
A force which grasps like a warm and fond hand.
Sunlight filters through the sparse trees, so fair,
While some music cues in my head, unplanned.
This is my place—solace from all truth,
A place which does ignite my life, my youth.
Who says we can't break the rules of our own creativity
Why should we stick to one method, one label, one technique
Can I not be a painter who draws
Or a builder who designs
Or even a reader who writes
I don't want to be just one
I want to be them all
I want the freedom to choose for myself
To be able to say I am me
I can change day by day
Being a new me as I please
I have no boundaries
I can be myself and that is all
To be a label is unnecessary
We define what is indefinable
We reach for the sky instead of the whole universe
Why are we limiting ourselves
We have no need
Just to give a name to simply an action or product
A creation which is observable as what it is
It is such a ridiculous notion
But as ordinary as a tree or a blade of grass
Yet even these are not limited
The grass can grow wherever it pleases
It can be whatever it desires
The tree can climb as tall as it wants
It can grow leaves or flowers
Bringing fruit in the spring
No one decides what is best for the trees and the grass
They decide for themselves
So why are we deciding for each other
Why are we limiting ourselves
We should all be allowed to flourish, grow and prosper
Without boundaries or limits or rules
We should encourage and inspire
So everyone can choose or not
Can label and build a box or not
If I hated to eat banana why would I allow someone to make me eat banana
So why are we allowing each other to force a passion and a label on to each other
We shouldn't be
Just because we all choose to spend some of our time as one thing
Or doing one activity
Does not mean we can't develop or change or grow into another
We have no set job or meaning in life
So why aren't we letting ourselves go
Being our true selves
Accepting ourselves and each other
For whatever each and every one of us decides is who we are
As an individual
Not as a label
I wrote this piece in response to Elin Loow's post called, Reclaim Your Creative Freedom, because I simply couldn't help but write my thoughts down.
Can you fill the position as my outlet
as my spout
my bucket is filling up,
I am spilling over
can you wade through the knee deep water
is it my anger?
can you put up through the stupid
“how are you”'s
you can stay
if you can be a pathway out of the dead end street
that leads me to your creek
if you can be the sun ray that blinds me,
so I’ll put the visor down
the first spark that starts the fire
the first poem out of too many
you’re the hole in the wall that’s inside my chest;
let me out
One tiny fiery ant
with a tiny wand,
a grand orchestra of
ants with varied talents,
resulting in a musical storm,
unheard of in the
craggy ant world before.
The ants with diaphanous wings
smug, complacent dandies
that counted themselves
nothing less than regal
buzzing above unaware
of this magic electrifying
the land of ordinary ants below,
but had a hunch somehow
"Are we missing out
on some fine thing
ants like us should aspire for
or is it just a feeling
without any basis?"