I used to hide my scars, forever ashamed by the marks covering my skin. From my wrists to my thighs, fading little white lines. Starring at them now like my skin is a piece of paper waiting for an author to mark me with his words. I don’t hide my scars anymore, for they have created a place to write poetry.

What is it that you fear so much that you have to burry it away into the darkness of the unconscious?

Have you ever thought about your life without the demanding concept of time? Chances are you probably can’t, one of the very first things we learn is how to tell time. You know the year, the month, the day of week, right down to the time of day. You have tiny clocks on your wrists, some hung on your walls, there’s one on your screen and even your car. It’s funny how man is so dependent on time. Surrounding ourselves with a paralyzing concept that only man endures. When all around us in nature time is simply ignored, the birds are  not late, and wolves don’t fret over the passing of birthdays. See the world around us lives free while man suffers from the fear of time running out.

Everything that exists in our universe,
Whether it can be seen or unseen,
Consists of pure energy.
All matter, even our thoughts and emotions have their own vibrational frequency.
Our subconscious thoughts are inseparably connected to the rest of the universe.
As our conscious mind dwells habitually on a thought or idea, they become imbedded within the subconscious mind.
They form into the dominant vibration and it resonates with similar vibrations drawing them into our lives.
The whole universe is mind

These walls around me have ears,
And all the doors have eyes.
The trees have voices,
And the devil tells lies.
Blinking back tears
Fighting the urge to cry
Be careful for the snow
And beware the man
You think you know.

Be a writer who doesn't know where the next sentence will take her. A writer who focuses on her own self, studying her own brain. A writer whose heart is bursting with love and desire. A writer sly enough to give the clues to her secrets in the crevices of her pages. A writer whose words spread thought in others to give people a sense of purpose. But it's alright that she doesn't always know what she's thinking until she writes it. It's as if the words already exist somewhere and they just pour out of her thoughts. Be a writer whose mind is such a twisted place, crammed full of beauty, with darkness, the sun and a touch of madness.