As a minimalist, fearing art
Something so dear to my soul
My heart
The beauty, the expression
Became a material
And that, was not necessary

The pondering of question
"..Is this necessary"
Clouded and filled my canvas
The materials to paint with
The ink to write
Drowning again, it seems

Life free from attachment should liberate us
Not condemn us.
Not restrict us, though free us
Allowing us so much more, by having less

Art is necessary, even to the minamilist,
Of minimalist
Art is a tool of expression
Not an attatchement

I'm not attached to these paints anymore than
The clothes I wear
I feel just as much with these paintings on the wall
As I could if they weren't there

Minimalism is knowing that we still have
These memories, thoughts and emotions
Even when the objects aren't there to promote them

If I'm out of paints, I'll write in pen
If I'm out of paper, I'll go to the walls
If all else is gone, I'll sing the words

Free from attachment,
I still am able to enjoy these tools to use
And just as happily
Would give them to you

Materials do not truly give us anything,
And certainly should not take anything away, either

Welcome each other
A passing, of conversation
Whispers into the ear of one,
to the next
Conversing back and forth as banter will do
Only until suddenly, The conversation stops
And only one is left
The whispers of the other are gone,
And the chatter has stopped
To all be left on the sole speaker,
The new season

Not an involuntary change,
But a gradual loosening and shift to
something different,
Something new

The days show no evidence
But the mornings and nights still show
Remembrances of what was before it.
Just as the summer seems to shutter
In the thought of winter,
Spring was there to fade it out
In the mornings and nights,
So summer only knows from the memory
That winter was so far from where it is now

Hope is spring,
We don't have to fall

The Seasons can change anyways

Happily a drip
Off a petal, or two. Reaching out for another,
It seems
As if each flower is begging to get the benefit
Of the next drop.
Nothing to waste, soothing down from one petal
To the next,
Down the leaves that follow it
To the stem
And into the unseen ground.
The roots that help it grow
Fragile, it seems
The flower petals.
Yet they welcome these harsh rains.
They know that even a lost petal or two
From it
That the rain will help it
More than it hurts it.
The tears of these flowers go to the roots
And build a better stem
A stronger, flower

The life of the flower is much a balance
Too much sun, they wilt
Too much rain, they drown
But with the balance of the 2
They grow.

Why do we wish to block our rain
When even the flowers
Understand it

Proposing to post a poem.
One that is my proudest
One written so peacefully

I found this instead.

Finding it more and more often
Posting a lyric instead
That doesn't match the song playing
In the core

Of me, I feel it.
Heart beating, heart breaking
Heart singing
Heart wasting

Wasting away in a scorned past
One that is not relevant
That did not last
To the poems seeking to be shared

Move. Or I will
Out of the way
Your emotions are far overplayed
They've been listened to
And addressed
I've been raw
I've been patient
Displayed my best

I've learned from the experience
Though now it's time to rest

Reside to your slumber,
Find a new host you call home
The house is empty
And I'm not alone

I will move,
It's my decision.
My actions
My light
Without attachment
Without possession

Without scornfully burnt tires
Without redemption
Without needing approval

Make way for light.
Move, or I will

Because I'm too focused
On what's under each rock

These mountains don't move
We navigate around them
Over them
Through them

Move or I will
So it looks like, it will be me.

I've addressed this mountain from every angle
And I'm still not making it home
Time passes
Fog clears
Seasons progress
And change
And it's still the same mountain


I'm ready for the beach

sleeping in the attic.
I allow the sensation,
the atmosphere to be formed and felt
No illusion of yours
creates the things I imagine and feel
on my own,
alone.

In this attic
some would say
the slanting ceilings
bring me down
But I,
would disagree.
which is why
I'm In the attic

I see the peek. The rising walls
Lifting me along with it
Though their opinions are not relevant,
So should be my choice of words.
but, because, though

I'm here.
I'm here because I chose to be
here.
choose to stay
The walls too close to echo
my thoughts.
too close to shout
Even the whispers are heard
in full volume

Maybe I rushed that one out.
let's take it back to,
the attic.

Not room for too much,
Just too little time to worry
about space for the things
You don't need.
don't use,
or don't have.
Only the things that belong
make it with you
When you live in a space,
like this

I'd cover the walls,
Though I don't like the metaphor
I'd wait until tomorrow
to address the issue,
Though I have no way of knowing
when tomorrow has arrived.
yet here i am.
Avoiding it anyway.

and I'm already hearing myself being talked,
and thought.
into only a space as small as these 4 uneven walls
allow.

to no surprise.
Only until I closed my eyes
did I see
The reason I'm here
In the attic.