Most people walk past
At best they think: can't this be better
can't this colouring in boxes
also be done by a child -
      
practice a few times
to fill them in solidly, without scratches
and to stay within the lines, but did they
ever sit down for it themselves?
      
Dot they remember what it feels like?
That you are completely absorbed in it
that time stands still and everything
feels good, that you know
      
well, can't I? Yes
I can do this too!

blushes
tips, brushes and spills and the willingness of physics
dip the quill
blending a full face of colours trippy
tipping my crown, my head,
my thinker becomes      creation winning
inks
i wink   faithfully lacy    into the universe    pirouettes and eddies
tinkering
i divide myself    couple and quad and oct..
flood my breeding into the cosmos
spoon-feeding      peddling out into the mutter
the great relax of the creative meddle

Paper and Pen
Has always been
My weapon of choice
Carrier of my voice
My comfort, my escape
Here on the page;
I feel most safe.



Still somedays I wonder
If only my voice could speak
As articulately
Perhaps the world could be
Just as meant for me...



So maybe.
I'll just try, a little
To speak out
With words that are not brittle.

Lost
in the thick green forest
stuck
and can't get through it
to get out
i don't know where i am
don't know what time it is
don't even know who i am
anymore
can't dial the right numbers
can't get through to anyone
finally when i did get through
the person on the other end
would be a family or friend
who sees me as an unknown  
stranger
i think this is a conspiracy
i might have been deleted from the regime
of the human society.

The presence of our contemporary age
Alters artistic vision down a spiral of emptiness.
Artist no longer create the visual page,
Their spellbound by ambitions of digital laziness.

Visions lost to the age of simplicity,
Erased to machines’ evil desires,
Deluded by storms of deception,
Creativity ceased as hell endures its fires.

Instant gratification — the new reality —
The yearning for excellence, no endurability.
Modern day artistic creativity,
Coerced by digital debility.

Tradition bankrupt by false realities,
Lost to a pallet of ones and zeros;
Artwork with no archival ability,
The future lost to modern day technologies.

When you were a child you liked to play
That is Godly

Remember when they told you to go play?
You didn't always want to play

You wouldn't stop carrying on and wallowing around
When they whipped you or sent you to your room

You played
God returns

Proof?
It sure wasn't the devil guiding you.
They were busy telling you what to do, and whipping you for not playing

Boom

It's raining

cold water hogged the streets

people rain watching

watching the same script

rain washing the frontage

revealing long-lost clarity

dazzling colors of the wall

rise from the ground.

What intrigues
The flint
To spark a thought?
Is it sadistic?
Is it sympathetic?
Recognizable,
Understandable,
Plausible?
Do you ever
Know enough?
Lost in search for
The heart
Of the matter
Do you truly believe
In this world
You've created?