A quiet morn
A girl full of distraught
A blue sky
And a grey soul.


A glass window
A peek Into the outer world
Innumerable statues
With a beating heart.

A lonely walk
Into the mind
Vivid scenery
And a dull light in the eyes

Blank pages
And the indigo ink seeping through
The more you bleed out
The less empty it feels

A dusty road
With forgotten footprints
A lost summer
With many unheard stories

A race
With no definite end point
A ticking bomb
Waiting to explode

A quiet night
And a girl full of distraught
A sky like graveyard
Stars being the buried dreams

She's in the kitchen
(close the door)
just mixin' up some metaphor;
a true conundrum
through and through
and through to me and thus to you.

Her humble hunger
(forest's slumber)
thunders 'neath a wilting tune;
tuned to too many
to count without
a thought within.

She must profess
(but shall confess)
to any who will listen;
closely she holds
a tragic history
mostly mystery to most.

She solves my soul
(I deny that hole)
which she still fills;
overflowing always
with such unrelenting joy
that is My Love.

These days there's a recurring theme
It's 4 am
I'm lacking sleep
And losing dreams

There are 10 kinds of people in this world,
and binary accounts for them all.

They're happy and sad.
They're ones and zeros.
Villains and heroes.
Villains, yet not all bad.
Despite everything life decides to hurl;
Despite every brick ball of fear
Through the stained glass windows of their minds,
Through it all, they survive.
They're angry and glad.
They're happy and sad.

And in their duality, they're still smiling there
at your sharp hasty words
at your venomous hurt
that you wish so desperately they, too, shared.

So many people,
Yet, so little friends
So much time,
Yet, so little to do
So much space,
Yet, so little to have
So much to give
Yet, so less to get
So little to remember
Yet, so much to forget

-Kaya