My freedom will be in this light
In this light!
Freedom in these strands of grass
In this tiny particles of dust
Oh in this enchanting play
Of the mind and the body
I lose myself!
In the notes of this
Melody
And its Radiant songs
My freedom floats above
Oh my freedom
You are only in
The midst of the
Minds of everyone
In the difficult tasks
Where I do leave
All my sorrows
And worries of danger
Far behind
Oh does burn
The sacred sacrificial
Yajna fire
Rich with the
Eagerness of self sacrifice
In the heavenly abode
Of the one
Who holds this world!
O let me sacrifice this life
In the quest
Of this golden freedom
My freedom will be
In this light!

Stroke after stroke.
Intentional.
Purposeful.
We create art.
We are art.
Made by a creator.
A beautiful creation.
A wonderful masterpiece.
A work of art.

Misshapen hands, with scars in unusual places, glide and strike with short flurried bursts across the keyboard. The soft ticking of keys and the clock are the only sounds that permeate the silence. He leans back in his chair to observe and critique his work before moving on, only to return hunched over to correct minor mistakes. This pattern, this silence, has become normal to him. Foreign is the concept of others while he gives his thoughts their first breath of air. The world to him a simple hum tugging at the back of his mind, slowly bringing him down from his throne of creation.

I had no ambitions
I had simply an idea
Your the one who volunteered
To bring it to life

You're the one who convinced me
That this could be done
That we would be partners
Throughout it all

Now you tell me
After I spent a month and half
Working on this, and falling in love with it
That it was doomed from the start

You tell me
That it was too ambitious
When honey you were the ambitious one
I was just a creator

Then you tell me
That I'll never succeed
But I'm not the one who bailed
On the one they called a friend

Now I'm the ambitious one
And the one with the idea's
And you're just the one who left
Because he was too afraid to fail

Spending Christmas alone, shivering in a corner

Refusing to waste my time engaging in conversation with these lost foreigners

Talk about women like they are an object to their advance

Saying life's next step is at their finger tips, always willing to accept a dangerous chance

Dunked laughter deafening my ears and the smell of alcohol choking my throat

This is not the main reason why my heart breaks for them. Their good works won't keep them afloat

They can have all the fun they desire for now, but if their souls are not saved... They will suffer

I weep over their foolish souls that strikes me down, believing I will be one of them, but I'm tougher...

I spend Christmas alone in a corner... To protect my self from their abuse

What better person to be alone with on this day then the Creater and His word? What is there to lose?

The silence never seems to welcoming unless I am alone and secure

In a blanket by the fire, thinking and reading and praying. His comfort is there for sure

Have A Merry Christmas!!! Its more then just a time to be with family, but a time to be alone...

Destiny

"We're destined together"
Words loosely, and yet famously said
We choose a collective destiny
Have we forgotten that our individual purposes
Intend for us, destinies, uniquely?
It's highly probable we're not forgetting individual destiny,
But what have we considered?
Is it that we're going to fuse our individualities
And embrace a collective destiny?
Or is it that we're going to dare ourselves
And rise up above our diverse purposes?
The latter, does it, in any way
Make us be destined together?
What is the destiny of mankind
United in promise and vow?
If our destiny isn't our only Creator!

"I Saw a Monkey"

I saw a magnificent monkey
his name was adam
Creator of the now   like you
we hear stand on top mountains
Look Look   a far away
feet on ground

A angry fire rages on in the corners of my black pupils yeilding it into reflections that shimmer light upon old coffee colored paper like a light house.
My old hands, cracked, and withered like an old crispy flower lay upon my tan paper, vibrations consume my hands.
There in my head is a river called creativity and it is where I get my power.
In the dead of dawn there glows a  golden ray of sun filling my sweat beads lodged between the wrinkles on my face.
My pen is alive as I am too.
I do not write.
My pen does
And the universe tells it what to do.