This is not a poem;
This is an artist screaming to be heard in the abyss of life's harshest realities.

This is not romantic;
This is an artist learning to to be in love with her very self.

All this years, I have been trying so hard to create a person I could love.

Little did I realize, what I was looking for has always and-
will always be within me.

I think I've learnt to love myself.
I think I'm finally free.

This is a poem;
This is an artist screaming to be heard in the abyss of life's harshest realities.

This is romantic;
This is an artist learning to to be in love with her very self.

All this years, I have been trying so hard to create a person I could love.

Little did I realize, what I was looking for has always and-
will always be within me.

I think I've learnt to love myself.
I think I'm finally free.
I think-

— c.s wondering

.
Walk through the silence
of a lonely tapestry,
its mute single thread
trying to Canute the night,
knowing it must ride the Moon
to dance with the stars.
Blood red ink.
Ink red blood.
Across pages it falls,
words of needlepoint pain
screaming at the audience,
the Moon has been deflowered
and the stars dance alone.
Cedar wood smoke perfumes
the stench of lethargy,
from an open log fire
throwing flickers of hopeful light,
flame fingers burn the Moon
as the stars cry for the weaver.



© Pagan Paul (02/06/19)

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She desperately tries to fight
against the tide
knowing she's never been
strong.
The waves are overpowering.
Ignoring her struggle
they continue,  battering her
physically,
emotionally.
She is losing her fight
to get to where she needs to be.
Tempted to submit,
let go,
give in,
she relaxes her exhausted
muscles,
her exhausted self.
Holding her breath
and letting the current control her
she resigns,
just for today
and let's the tide decide
that it will take her
back to the shore.
Maybe she'll begin
to end it all again tomorrow.

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