I can see you there,
hiding behind your wall.
well I’ll climb right over it,
I’m not afraid to fall.
Besides, I can always start climbing again,
what’s a few bruises and scrapes between friends?!
I’ll find you where you are hiding
and I’ll try to help you see,
How much I really care for you
and how much you mean to me.
I understand it’s been easier,
to build your wall instead of getting hurt,
so I won’t come along and smash it down,
instead I’ll sit with you in the dirt.
I’ll help you to install a gate
so sometimes I can come through,
I’ll try to help repair the cracks,
using love and kindness for the glue.
I’ll fill some gaps with flowers,
to bring some colour to your life,
their beauty keeping you hopeful,
when your mind is in trouble and strife.
One Day you’ll be strong enough
to come out from where you hide
and it won’t be so scary
for you to allow me to see inside.
But until that day I’ll keep scaling your wall,
and planting my flowers in the gaps,
hopefully they will help you to see
there’s beauty within the cracks.
For I refuse to leave you hiding alone,
So I’ll keep climbing, stone by stone.

white is the colour of something new, without being a colour.
white is nothing. what makes it something. something that screams without saying anything and at the same time it’s noiseless.
white is like crystal snowflakes that swirls in the ocean blue sky and searches for his something. his colour. and when he founds his colour. he falls into that colour and that nothingness white changes into something.
a new bright colour.

No word
no sound
no colour
yet a lingua
is heard in
two hearts!

There's always been something
so Hollywood about her--
and I don't mean
21st Century *******.

I'm talkin'
Judy Garland,
you're the bee's knees
type of Hollywood.

Now, listen'--
this girl--
I'm talkin'
Bombshell-Cutie
(she'll blow your
******'socks off).

I'm talkin'
Cinematic Beauty Queen;
skin freckled with film grain
the same way the night sky
is freckled with constellation,
mouth parted like velvet curtains,
only to reveal the sweetest prose.

She is Mystique-Fatale,
blazon in colour
among dull, sepia tones--
an Oz among all
the dreary Kansases.

She is allure and poeticism,
hair curled grand,
dressed to the nines
in lace and satin
(they wonder
what lies beyond the
half moons of her *******
and the slit in her gown,
if the butterflies
run rampant
between her knees
like everyone says).

Do not underestimate her--
she is both
Shirley-Temple-Sweetheart
(her kindness
does not falter)
and Pinup-Girl-Honey
(one would not think
to challenge--
to break--
a woman
so prolifically brazen,
but they try anyway).

In a world filled
with actresses--
please, darlings,
save the acting for
the stage,
******* it--
she is so ineffably herself.

She does not reserve
her emotion for
the theatre alone;
she is not afraid
to cry, and--
Jesus--
when she cries
the earth shakes
with the very profusions
of an opera singer's vibrato.

And, God,
you should hear
her poetry,
brimmed with images
picturesque and tragic,
straight outta the movies
it would seem.
Yet, her words
ring with something
so inconceivably real.

And that's what
you've always loved
best about her--
she is the truest person
you've ever met.

It's a shame, then,
that you wouldn't stay
for the grand finale.

But,
with or without you,
this show must go on.

(and it has).

The lines cutting through the canvas,
one by one carving it up.
Slowly turning it into this piece of "art".
The vivid colours jumping from the page
screaming, Look at me! Look at me!
Well, we are looking.
Yet we never truly see what is there.