You got this way about you
I can't figure out
All that I said remains true:
I want to see where life takes you

Your gentle hands, unspoken brush strokes—
Why mask your portrait in shades of gray?
Give yourself the same grace

Why is your worth a foreign concept?
You're the epitome of the green and gold

What can I do?
Certainly can't argue—
Just accept a—

simple truth:
you're the green and gold inside the gray

I will make films when I grow up. I will descend to madness when I grow up. I will give up when I grow up. I will travel the world when I grow up. I will call you when I grow up. I will fall in love when I grow up. I will create art when I grow up. I will run away to the woods when I grow up. I will cry when I grow up. All humanity has is art and grief. Don't let the art die or the grief perish. Underneath the sky of a thousand stars, we have made a home for ourselves. Poetry and music sustain our wounded souls. Don't let them die a million deaths like innocent men and women killed by innocent men and women. In the blank space of the universe, we all are equal. The hated and the hater are alike in status, imprisoned by false cages of philosophy, a quest long drawn since ancient times, searching for it in urban cityscapes. Cities where nobody cares to know your name, where we are trampled by the crowds. This is the home we have made for ourselves underneath the blanket of a thousand stars. There is no meaning in suffering. We suffer because we search for meaning. All our lives we try to get out of the prison only to be stuck in another prison. In between, moments of light. In between chaos, moments of calm. In between, moments of creation. Humans are art and yet so ugly. Humans are stardust yet their face belongs in the mud. Humans are so capable but so ruthless. Cities where freedom exists in the air. Houses side by side. Autumn shades. Haunted blues. Nostalgia. Music of the soul. What are we? What have we become? A million memories have created my body. A million imprints on my body. Run boy, run to the land of free. Run to the heavens for you have been lied to for your entire life. A life devoid of passion is meaningless. And passion must not be searched in empty spaces of human settlements rather the art our generations have left and will leave for all to see. Art is all that we have as a reflection of ourselves. Art is the proof that we existed and so did our restless hearts and passions. So many of us on this planet we call our home yet we still don't know the meaning of beauty, love or being human. So distracted we have become. Look for passion within. When you try to end your life, your suffering will hold you back. You hate your life yet it will save you. There are giant trees reaching to the sky and barren deserts filled with solitude and galaxies beyond comprehension and mountain peaks we haven't reached. The world is our oyster. It is us. It is the universe breathing in different forms. You are the spirit of the river, the resilience of the mountain and the branch of the tree. All life is connected. All life is suffering. Yet this suffering I enjoy. All that happens in life is life. All grief and love and passion and madness and anger and rage and excitement are akin to the throbbing ocean waves, the thunderstorm painting the sky, the mountain snow being melted. You and me, humanity and art are but one spirit, lost in space trying to reach out to each other, trying to find love in chaos, beauty in ugliness, peace in destruction. War is what gives me the most pain. To **** your own species is foolishness. The pain that she feels, I feel and that's why I must stand up for my fellow human beings. When a tree is uprooted from its home, I feel it's pain. The answer is to feel the suffering. Don't run away from it. Feel the passion. Feel the pain. Feel the magic. You and me, humanity and art are but one spirit, lost in space trying to reach out to each other, trying to love all that is and all that isn't.

I’m an ocean without any waves
A song without any sound
A book without any words
A car without any gas
I’m a shell of who I was
Who I want to be
Who I meant to be

Sadness creeps in
And keeps my warmth out
As though my internal warmth
Wanted to leave in form of tears.

Wailing
Swirling
Churning.
From the depths
But not yet seen.

Hands heavy.
Attention.
Here and
Gone.

Pulling me down
Jesus,
Buddha,
Connection to Source.
Pulling me down
And down.

The ground,
But deeper
The bottom of the sea
But deeper
I find
My grief.

It’s source unknown,
Just there.
Always has been.
Relics of a past before mine?

No matter.
The bottom
Salvation
From suffering.
The bottom,
The pain
the pain
the pain.
The bliss of
feeling human.

The feeling of nostalgia is so foreign,
yet so wistfully timeworn.
like a photo of your ancestors
you've never met,

Or books written
in a once spoken language,
you cease to understand.

Such as a worn out toy,
that at one time brought joy
to a young child's heart.

Or the scent of a cherished candle,
kindling the remnants
of a distant, elysian land.

It's like a place you've never been
and will probably never be,
but the silent warmth it provides
is enough to put your weary eyes to sleep.

Are we meant to dissect
These poems with laboratory
Efficiency and precision?
Are we meant to
Pull them apart and
Split their seams and
Inspect them for flaws?
Or
Are we meant to
Let them spill into us and
Let their loveliness warm our
Souls!
Let them speak and sing and
Sweetly stutter, with a flutter
Let them trace our spirits back
Let them, like a flame, attract
Us until we are, like moths, consumed—
To love a flower, let it bloom.

No, no no
you dont understand,
its the rain,
how it runs down my legs,
how you can feel it in the air,
how you can see it all the same

You dont understand!!
its the wind,
pushes me,
reminds me im alive,
take me with you let me fly

Let me drown
let me drown
let me drown!
let me feel your salty water
let me forget I am one,
I never want to come out

Let me watch,
let me feel,
let me transform,
how it is to roll on the floor,
over and over again,
you just cant understand

Its the middle of the night,
I have this pit in my stomach.
Its a sinking feeling,
I cant stop it.
I need help,
I cant ask for it.
Feels like hell,
I cant get out of it.
Im sinking,
Deeper and deeper,
To the depths of despair.