I, the shortest word,
I, my true self,
I,the creator of myself,
I, a paragon,
I, exist to be loved,cherished and respected.
I, with am inspires me,
Frees my heart,
Restores my mind.
I am who I am,
I am what I am,
I am enough.
I am the love of my own life,
I am my own questions and answers,
I am the judge of my own reflection.
I am the captain of my own ship,
I cross my own oceans,
Over calm or rough seas.
I am my own artist,
I choose my own paints to bring colours to my life.
I am the architect of my life,
I plan my own life,
I build my life with my own materials.
I am my own soul,
Beyond the time,
Beyond space,
I,my soul does not die,
I ,my soul follows me to hereafter.

Looking over the parapet
gawking at the Sagrada Familia
built by God's architect
almost makes me
                        want to believe.

milky way a spot
in the span of the
universe
resting in the hands of
our creator
to be nursed

web of stars spread
generously abroad
could creatures born
into this world
ever become bored?

from the heavens'
full perspective
this planet is oh-so small
though for us humans
who live on it
it is a mega ball

the architect
of everything
looks after heaven and earth
his gentle love so evident
how could I not thank him
for my birth?

You always try to organize spaces
And you never wanted those spaces to be just as adequate.
You tried and have many revisions
For you never wanted it to be simple
And you see spaces as some kind of small universes.
So, you wanted those spaces to have so much considerations.

Now, you're already done about planning and made your blueprint.
And so, the building is about to be built.
For days, months, and years, you tried to press on what was planned and you never wanted the construction to be inaccurate.
You really wanted to show the architect that you are.

In the end, those spaces and all that you worked for was not meant for you to have but for your client.



You were my client.

He treasured every inch of her skin
As if he was responsible for putting together her body structure and curves
Every detail was well thought, a result of numerous hours of unsharpened pencils and sketches
He has done this before, maybe even to the point that every stroke became less and less meaningful
When he wasn't preoccupied, leisure consisted of admiring buildings, edifices and towers that touched clouds and reached skies
He contemplated and wondered if he would ever come up with a design, so great that it would represent perfection
During nights when he would close his eyes,
He imagined a bare lot with overgrown grass, enclosed with trees
He pictured the process of construction, men moving back and forth, drenched in sweat,
And heat that showered on them like hovering bees
He never knew what perfection looked like, no matter how many times he would lie in bed at night with closed eyes
But she came to him like an idea, an inspiration that walked through the door
Yet he did not recognize that perfection looked beautiful in lavender
Nor did he know that she loved soft rains and ice cream during winters
He did not acknowledge such existence until she tore down her walls for him
And she became his favorite sketch, a structure he would always keep building
An assembly of the most appealing interior, countless hallways and staircases
A concept that needed more explanation and could not be written, spoken or expressed as blueprints
She became his favorite design, and a treasure he valued way more than any of his work

He loved her.

n.j.

Built on the Berkley model
Paid for with mothers essential oils
...a bitumen

And a flower blooms from Medicine Rock
Like a ballerina

As the Old Man weeps joyfully