Her eyes, they see every 
True things within me
Her lips, they paint words 
In the air like a delicate butterflies 
Her gaze, deeper than oceans,
Vaster than the skies 
Her energy, a pulsating force 
Vivacious and bright 
Her silhouette, a gentle outline 
Against the evening sky 
Her aroma, a blend of blooming 
Flowers and a lightning struck night 
Every single part of her 
Perfections that nobody can change
Her voice, a melody,
Carved from whispers of the winds,
It dances in the corridors of my soul,
A song only my heart understands.
Her touch, a gentle spark,
Igniting constellations on my skin,
Fingers like wandering artists,
Sketching galaxies within.
Her laughter, a cascade of stars,
Each note a prism of light,
It lingers, a haunting echo,
Through the stillness of my nights.
Her mind, a labyrinth of wonders,
Where dreams take their first flight,
A tapestry woven with wisdom and grace,
A sanctuary of infinite light.
Her presence, a radiant eclipse,
Both shadow and shine entwined,
A paradox of chaos and calm,
A mystery only time can find.
Her heart, an eternal fire,
Unyielding to the fiercest storm,
A beacon in my darkest seas,
A place I long to call home.
Every fragment of her existence,
A symphony of unspoken art,
She is the universe itself,
And I, a wanderer in her heart.

In the boundless skies above, where stars in silence gleam,

We are made of heaven’s breath, in every heart’s true dream.

Born of cosmic stardust, in the tapestry of night,

We carry the celestial spark, within our inner light.

In the laughter of the morning, in the whisper of the breeze,

Heaven’s touch resides within, in moments such as these.

Through the trials and the triumphs, in joy and in despair,

We find the traces of the stars, in all we do and share.

Our spirits are but echoes, of a universe so grand,

We are made of heaven’s grace, by nature’s gentle hand.

In every act of kindness, in every loving glance,

We reveal the threads of heaven, in our human dance.

We are more than flesh and bone, more than earthbound clay,

We are born of endless skies, in the light of a new day.

In our dreams and aspirations, in the love we freely give,

We are made of heaven’s wonder, in each moment that we live.

So let us shine with all our might, let our spirits soar,

For we are made of heaven’s heart, forever and evermore.

In the vast expanse of life, where stars and souls align,

We are made of heaven’s essence, in the depths of the divine.

Unbound chaos crafted by illegal hands
beautiful tragedies in the eyes of 2 sides
A vandal’s artwork so articulate it’s a crime
We’ll never know their name or the history of how they came to be
But only imagine in the graffiti we see
Dashing expression, in spontaneous speed
Lovely locomotive tapestry

To love is to paint
delicately dragging your brush across a canvas
being deliberate with every flick of your wrist
every stroke gentle and planned
and when you make a mistake, you don't throw away the whole canvas
no, you pick up your brush and paint a happier picture over it

I've been afraid to paint for some time now.
I always jump into a painting with a happy picture in mind
but my end result is always the same
groggy. messy. not good enough.
maybe I'm just not destined to be a painter

she paints an image of herself –
all flaws gone, erased from reality:
blissful heaven and ecstasy are all that are left.
brushes away her transgressions,
her fears and regrets.
sadness overpowered by a layer of cyan.

she is happy at this moment,
and the stroke after that,
and the stroke after that – i hope.
she is her own goddess – creator of beauty –
maker of paradise –
mother of thin, crowded jet-black lines.

every tint of ink, a new creation;
a bridge to herself;
a mirror of herself.
she is the artist striving for perfection.
every hour she batters herself.
every hour she compares herself.

aiming for the stars and beyond,
but she only fools herself –
for she is perfection.

A seraphic grand piano, besmirched with blood and fervent,
Scattered across old alabaster keys, Ichor stains scores of parchment.

Stewed passion runs wildly across the docile tempo,
Mellifluous effervescence lingers in the gored vestiges of a crescendo.

Memories of artistic vigour shrivel and regress,
Our blissful felicity of mellifluence, slaughtered by organic evanesce.

RAISING YOUR
VOICE
will only
lower you
in my
eyes