She went and wrote the rivers
Illustrated the waterfalls
And conducted the forest orchestra
She took on the role of Mother Nature while she watched the world deteriorate her role as a woman

I might not be “the One”
But Ill be the one you won’t forget

can not be found in the flesh
For as warm it may be
As soft to your fingers it is
It will lay soft and cold eventually

can not be found in gold
Yes, it never loses its luster
But many coins you need to muster
And no number will fill the gap in your soul

can not be found in others
For the laughs may distract
The facade will crack
And still you will be empty inside

ilusive as it may be
It follows you around
It never left
For within you she rest
Waiting to be awoken
And while the rest might feel great
They serve as nothing but crutches
On your own you must stand
If you are to revel
On the pleasures life offers...

To improve one self
To look on path troded
It´s essence

To know there is more
With hunger jump forth
It´s rushes

To balance the mind
With the desire of the heart
It´s key

And once held in hand
You will understand
That happiness flies like a bird
But behind she left
Tranquility
And the knowledge
That you can get it again...

I ran out of verses
They are all... spent
Of things of love and life
All things are... said

And is there a saddest creature
That a man who wishes to write but can´t?
Words trapped inside him like a prison
My own jailor, without the key in my hand

And they wish for freedom
To escape the torment and the silence inside
But in that silence they die
They die...
The words die...
They die alone...
Every death a cut...
To the mind...
To the will...
To the soul...
To the mind and the soul, the guilt that was brought
If only I could have written it before!
I could have done more!
So many stories! So many feelings!
No more...
And the corpses of words
And the messages they had
Rot to form a mire
A putrid, fetid swamp

Maybe something can be salvaged
Yes, maybe something of worth
lays hidden in the muck
Is it worth rescuing
Or let it fester some more?
And the mud keeps growing
Swallowing everything of worth
And it saps the will of writers
Like a pipe with dirt is clogged
And it´s blotted, and it´s roars wishing to be free
But again, they are denied their wish
Warped of the thing they used to be
This words...
They are no longer verses...



















They are just ****