A writer’s core is pain and fears. This is what they release with every pencil [keyboard] stroke. It’s a healing process which allows them to see the light. The reason why writers share this healing process is because they simultaneously heal others who are internally at war. And, that is a writer’s responsibility—to heal the world.

Go on a rich voyage
away from the crowds,
       in tune with the waves,
             in love with the clouds.
With just the ocean breeze to converse with,
   may your richest secrets be revealed in motion.
It is in this place where you go offline
      and truly connect to the source of time.
Here lies your inner voice and guidance.
Offline, is where you are most connected;
       lost in the faraway horizon.

The second time
It’s different
Like we went to war
And came back again
Home
Feels sweet on the tongue
Interacting with you
Feels like that first drink of water after days of dehydration
I can’t stop breathing you in
I always thought that first love is the purest
But what is more pure than watching the sky clear after a storm
What is stronger than experiencing the worst together and seeing it through
How can I explain to you the gratitude
I feel for the things we could have lost but that love helped retain
Nothing is the same
I don’t want it to be
But one thing became clear when we wiped away the rain
Nothing looks better than home
Coming back from foreign lands

There's something wrong with my smile
I don't know if anyone else sees it
But i have been going through my pictures
And for the longest while
There has been something wrong with my smile

I remember the pictures of colgate ad worthy
And i see now pictures of nothing happy worthy
There's something wrong with my smile
That good jest of good riddance
That warm comfort, that warm trans
What is wrong with my smile?

-to be continued-

-fir.m

You know
I've always heard
People saying and ranting
About going home
Home home home

I don't know why
My home is a place
A place where i never want to be
I hate it there

It's so suffocating
The minds there are ignorant
And and stifling
I hate it there

It's where my eyelids
Are pasted together
And where my lips
Are stapled together
I hate it there

It's where my thoughts
Are are vile
And my heart is
Just an *****
I hate it there

It's where there's always
A preach about god
But what god would
Allow stifle
Allow suffocation
Allow ignorance

It's a place that i hate
I hate
I hate

-fir.m

1233

Had I not seen the Sun
I could have borne the shade
But Light a newer Wilderness
My Wilderness has made—

668

“Nature” is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.