To understand
this solid door
You must come true
and eager for more

There is nothing to be bought
or sold
by bleeding red roses
You are not faulted
or framed
for what the moment imposes

Come to thee
With an open heart in mind
To stand and witness
The reality you've been longing to find

I promise nothing
For if you push the door it will not swing
But if you pull towards your heart
You might be surprised as to what I'll bring


My Everything

Something was revealed
seemingly awoken
granted graciously,
as a sentimental token

Passed and accepted 
within a fragment of space
from spirits unbroken
so truthful was the taste

To exist, in a boundary of existence
in an ancient forgotton glade
where two doth meet eternally
with impressions softly made..

In every inspiration
there's a spire
next to it
rests desire

In every thought
there's a key
behind each door
a place to see

In every emotion
there's a color
once it stains
there is another

In every poem
there's a clue
an unsolved mystery
Involving you

Mathmatical
                                In Meter
                             & Meaning
 
                             Formulated
                              In Context
                            & Reasoning

                              Calculated
                               In Rhyme
                              & Delivery

                               Educated
                            In Hindsight
                              & History

Would speaking perfectly
                  Make everyone listen

Would perfect sense
                 Give us perfect vision

Would looking perfect
                  Make us loved by all

Would that perfect life
                    Be perfect at all


We dont walk on perfect land
Nor breath in perfect air
We dont swim in perfect water
Nor warmed by perfect flare


As perfect as we want things to be
Perfection is still like winter leaves
Resting perfectly under coldness we see
And perfectly on top of what we believe

It Was So

Not until the world grew cold
Did we
Claim the sun and moon as our own

Not until the light was shown
Did we
Take the fight to all the unknown

Do we remember

The countless hours
Upon the grindstone
Making things so difficult
Unable to identify with our dreams.

Could we forget 

The amount of lies
We told ourselves without order,
to keep ourselves wanting more
Under the shelter of our insecurities

Can we see

The beautiful aftermath,
of all the damage we suffered
Molding us into the beings
We once wished we could be

Can we believe

That every opportunity given
Can be seized or freed
Shaping our constitution
Into our "wants" and "needs"

Can we
Could we
Do we

It has been so...

Heart, may very well be full of ink.
Ink to be spilled into open waters, that either constitute or dilute its beat.

Every now and then the ink dries,
and when the ink dries there is a scripture,
that seems to paint a picture. A picture... That causes a scene to be serene like a vision in a dream, colors swarm in cool blue and vivid green. With Eyes overtaken and hardly mistaken, vision becomes such a wonderful thing.… Such a wonderful thing.

Other times Ink spills from heart into mind...
Crossing a plane where obsessions and rejections split apart, dividing into sections to detect intention. Looking from afar will reveal reflection but internal detection is a parabolic lecture, so one can choose where to look and choose when to listen, and frame the picture in part of their vision..