Find your place,
a thinking space
you can call your own,
inside your mind
it’s important to find
a private zone,
where you can be you
and first in the queue,
for good mental health
take some time for yourself

we are given life to do with what we will
it can be a ball and give you such thrill
make you fall in love  when love comes along
you will hear the sound of loves favourite song

it can make you happy make you dance and sing
if you treat life right it will bring you everything
it is there for you at your beck and call
all things in life you can have them all

all it takes is you which way it will go
there inside your mind only you will know
treat life with respect it will respect you to
everything in life is waiting there for you

The approach is fast,
The trickle slow.
Softly seeping down below.

A violent end.
A peace not past.
You, bending steel. Me, breaking glass.

What was dampened
Once, abruptly clears.
May fortune favour golden years.

A block of ice
Cannot endure.
At last, find footing firm and sure.

Now brilliant, shines
An endless sky.
Inspires distinction of truth from lie.

Elated! Joyful! Then dropped
A darkly veiled mask.
Ground is near, approaching fast.

Love moves like wind that stirs the silent trees,
It bends the bough but never breaks the stone.
It whispers truths in rustling melodies.

It pours like rain that falls on trembling seas,
Then leaves as sudden, and we stand alone—
Love moves like wind that stirs the silent trees.

It burns like sun through winter’s brittle freeze,
Then hides in clouds where shadows chill the bone.
It whispers truths in rustling melodies.

It grows like moss in darkened symmetries,
A quiet bloom where none had ever shone—
Love moves like wind that stirs the silent trees.

It carves through time like roots in centuries,
Reclaiming all we thought was carved in stone.
It whispers truths in rustling melodies.

So heed the hush of nature’s mysteries:
The heart is earth, the soul is overgrown.
Love moves like wind that stirs the silent trees—
It whispers truths in rustling melodies.

Words are not like bullets
to be in the gun loaded:
they are each a fertile seed
within the writer's heart to be planted