When I write these things
my thoughts fly with birds
sometimes grey in storms
sometimes winged in skies
so feathery

When I sing this song
my heart goes in beats, bittersweet
sometimes heavy held, my sorrow spilled
sometimes warmed, red flushed
and fluttery

When I paint this canvas
my brush moves in labyrinthine moods
sometimes shades, darkest blue cerulean
sometimes flowers white, soft as clouds
upon the page, floating heavenly

Some days I wake
in the cooling clouds and rain
float into the unknown of day
sometimes I am nearly froze
in wintry dreams of streams and ponds
sometimes my feet in forests, treading mossy greens
I walk amid summer trees, that shine in a sun path, glistening
one day with autumn leaves, I'll go falling back to earth, so soon to sleep.

Someone who fights for you day and night
Someone who wants to see you soar high in the sky
Someone who risks their life so you can survive
Someone who accepts their fate to see you choose your own
Someone who drops to the base so you can reach the pinnacle
Someone who faces hell so you can experience Heaven
A soldier is...
Not only someone that fights in a war but someone that will do anything for you

I write in concrete;
find mystery in the real
and the everyday.

The ice cold chocolate milkshake and the longstanding dichotomy of poet philosopher , musician and painter
Socrates would make a point as to it's rightful owner , questioning whether or not it was even a cold , sweet drink
Dylan would make it the focal point of a tune about a small town eatery
Picasso would paint a story of deliciousness mired in loneliness
Randolph would pick it up with both hands and gulp it down

i turn around,
pretend i don't see,
and then i forget
about it.

as simple as that.

i know i'll die
alone. we all do.
me, i will not know
if i have lived.

that's hell, they say.

She wondered what it would feel like
To escape the rigid boundaries of words
And speak in the fluid language of art

The chemical pull of the pen was exciting
But the blissful sensation of the brush
May give way to time losing its meaning

Her love of art came from her childhood
Story books when opened meant she
Could fall inside the wonderful illustrations

Years of life and years of passion spent inside
Black and white sketches and drawings
Magical incredible frightening and amazing

She feels the silence between poetry and art
She feels them expand and soften until it seems
Like a giant bubble that holds them both