Poems are scribbles of lines, on a paper
Scribbles, nothing more nothing less
Made up scribbles

Scribbles that take shape into emotions
Into joy fear anger
Feelings of flattery and expression
Mixing and molding as if they speak
Yes…

These scribbles through their end and curves, whisper their weights upon
Handing us a candle to bring forth their message

Scribbles that take the form of color
And through their highs and lows they present an image
A portrait
A mirror

The scribbles are what we call literature
It is what we call art

Mister brain
You took millions of years to develop
Then why must I feel dumb
Why must we fight with our own
Why must we hate

You broke through the sea and concurred the sky
Then what is the meaning of this
Why are you killing this world
Why are you destroying our future

I do not think the universe wanted its wise creation to be a parasite
There is no sense of art in desertion
No sense of care in pain

Art is money its value is what we give it
Imaginary but the only thing keeping us from barbarians

From the trees from the far shore
To the mount peaks of the backyard
Art is art
Howww evveryyy…


Do you make an effort
Do you make a stride
I did
I tried

But to my surprise
I have no light
I see no meaning
This freedom
this course
it has brought upon me
Has failed to help me

…

For now I suppose art is money
And that is good enough for me

Best way to think outside a box
Is to be inside it

Not a special box
Just box wiht no gaps
no windows
no light
The perfect box


Cuz the one, who is truly blind
Is the only, one who’s canvas is not blinded, from outside light

To be accepted is to reject thyself.

I rejected my self the liberty
The responsibility
For a mere second”s”
For a mere word”s”

To reject thyself the luxury for?
for?

To be human
Emotional and free
But trapped the same

Trapped in this cage
Staring at a mirror
But not a reflection
A program, A script, A painting

Dbfsdlfbsfbsdfdsjf

Everything is sudden
Nothing is certain
Impulse is what I call it
To resist change
But be caused by mere whim of emotions


this title is what you call it??

The pinnacle of society. an Impulse?

Every thought,
Every action,
Every cause
Every reaction

Even this
Even you
All you my words of emotion
All your words of acceptance
Or reject“ence”
Are a mere impulse of thoughts caused a reaction put into action

I like others, contain freedom
I like others, express fear?

Break
Break Break
To what is it to know freedom when I feel fear
To what is to fear when I have freedom

One may break,
without the other,