The breeze between my fingers holds me
Exactly where I need to be
Far
And for a moment found
Indefinitely
Connected there
Almost lovingly with
The soundless trees
Which have whispered fair
Next to nothing's for all eternity

My poetry
It is my breakfast
It is my lunch
It is my tea
It is my dinner
It is my supper
It is me
My poetry

Poetry is the food of life!

i think i've lost the feeling in my fingertips
and the words that
graze my lips
slip
and dissipate
into meaningless thoughts
onto a page
it's the banging against my window panes
the clang and drip of rain
it's the constant reminder of the sun
that 'yes, i live'
'yes, i am here'
'yes, i will stay'
'for as long as you will let me'
it's like listening to the sound of crashing waves
against the shore
as i dip my toes
in the moonlight
but
there is that fear
of the unknown
the slippery tongues of the abyss
that lap and lick against my heels
the tremble of my lip
the shudder down my spine
as it snakes around my legs
it's the longingness to runaway
and disappear
to leave without a trace
no new names, no fake identities
not a smidge of existence
no footprints left behind.

I just want to sit somewhere. And drink coffee with no-one. Until my thoughts are renewed, and my feet spring alive with a new thread of carbon.

I love you more than anything me.
Wait for you like ocean tides knowing.
And speak with fire bright stars,
   where our hearts reside, burning.
In ever we will be togehter in
   this yearning.

Light the fire and pour the gasoline
Then let the ash follows the wind
To release the anchor of the world
That stuck on my back since forever

Light the fire and pour the gasoline
Let the memories fly to the astral realm
But my grip was never firm
And I still collecting dust ever since

Light the fire and pour the gasoline
Then put them back together with glue
Hide my feelings, and erase all the clue
Shut the noise from your heart when it's screaming

Light the fire and pour the gasoline
And use the flames to clean your sins
Or let your self be in the spiral of depression
Then fall and drown in the oceans

Let the flowers grow where they grow
Empty hands are still good hands
There's nothing to reach out for
Or hold on to or push away
No splinters or cuts to worry about
Breaks are healed, scars faded
There's nothing to touch or feel
Nothing to count
No one to wave to
No hand to hold,
And it was all right there
In the palm of my hand
This life
There for the taking
There for the receiving
There for the giving,
I let it slip through my fingers
But empty hands are still good hands.