Creativity flows through me
It bleeds from my words
Oozes from my actions
The way I walk
The way I move
The way every random thought I have comes together
To form a masterpiece like this one
Where writing a poem takes just a minute of my time
I write what I think and it doesn't have to rhyme

Some of the truest things are found,
where everything is NOT.

But this lie existing, incomparable
to what it does
as what counts.

My heart bleeds colours
but not the way you'd think
it drips

R
       A
                I
                        N
                    ­             B
                                       O
                                              W
               ­                                        S

through my veins
a
CACOPHANY
a
SYMPHONY
a
disdainful loss of my dignity.






Yes, my heart bleeds colours
I can no longer wear it on my sleeve
for all to see
the dazzling display that leaks



For such a heart as mine,
that appears so vividly black
I find it quite amusing,
for there certainly is a lack of

FEELING
and
EMOTION
coursing through my veins

and yet when it bleeds
THE COLOURS FLOW AGAIN

I've blue and yellow, mix to make green
Pink and purple
make the circle,
a full rainbow it would seem

Oh my heart bleeds colours
I am now no longer clean
for all my colours have started
seeping out my seams.

I’m tired
my body seems to be telling me
to go to bed and sleep
but I know I couldn’t,
for this poem is lurking inside
and won’t be denied
as much as I try.

Can poems be found in the tired
in the brain of one who’s wired
to look here and there and everywhere
like the bird perched atop the chair
in the backyard, its head swiveling to and fro
watching for cats or humans or hawks flying low?

I guess I shall see if there is a poem taking flight
here and now teasing twilight
will it swoop and settle in my mind
will my muse become archly inclined?
Or maybe I’ll dwell on that attentive bird
and in that dwelling find the words
and take a lesson from the throat of its being
breaking forth in its flight or its singing.

Is there a verse down there I’ve been saving
while the sapling Tallow is waving
saying goodbye to the dying day
dancing the wind in ***** ballet.
Is there a line
in the recesses of time
between vital concerns
and issues that burn?

I hear the cello’s refrain
playing nearby in mournful bane
it takes me back to practicing Strauss
on the piano, filling our house
with dissonance and verve
getting on my mom’s last nerve.
But oh how music flourished and reigned -
the joy in my soul could not be contained.

Thinking of what music has meant to me
and composed in me a sweet symphony
brings me alive here in this sacred space
replaces fatigue with energy and grace.
I stayed here long enough to find
these wisps of memory and rhyme
that so often provide the spark
to lift and fly me out of the dark.

The desert,
A sea of sand, drought and dry air under a scorching, blazing Sun,
The wind may feel alike a cut, which burns through your senses,
Relentless, the heat takes over by day, yet by night it is cold enough to freeze you if you come unprepared. Such would be a foolish idea,
A dessert of thoughts, driving into my brain, leaving ideas uncovered
Leaving productivity hidden, under the sand of hatred and self doubt
Such places, landscapes, covered by firy silicate or ice are truly lethal,
Such state of mind, covered by uncertainty is truly lethal, for ones wonderful creativity, for art of all kind, conveyed or material, if you might wander through such a land without any guide to help out,
Worry not, for after every drought comes rain, blissful rain to fertilise the soil of thoughts which will blossom in wonderous ways, to shine,
After all, motion without movement cannot be possible so try to move
A wise friend once tought me, that if you give it enough time, even a nigh impossibility becomes a certainty, even a desert could be a forest
But until then, be patient my dear, even the most deserted place, carries some beauty in it, no ?

~ Umi

The Greatest Mastery is The Mastery of the Mind
Everything else follows naturally -
emotions, thoughts, feelings, and perceptions.

You think that you feel, smell, touch, and other
But it is not you that does these things, but
Your Mind

Which thinks
And there you are
Doing everything
Your imagination's desire
Within the limitations
of a temporal reality.

Empty block
Full of everythings
To be carved into something
That was already in there

Finally revealed
It wasn't hidden by the unremoved pieces
But rather by billions of other shapes
That all sat juxtaposed
And each with just as much of a right
To emerge as the chosen shape did

Fragments of The Others
Worthy of reverence
Lay strewn on the floor
They gave themselves
That The One could exist
Those that never were
The unseen