everyday i would sing
rather it be a note or a full song
someday i was going to be a singer
it was my destiny i heard my parents say

however, as i grew older kids start to tease me
they started to realize my voice wasn't following my imagination
i could write a song
but my voice was not fit for it
they said

i slowly stopped singing to others and hid in my room
where i would sing riptide to just me, myself, and i

i remember it clearly
when someone asked me to stop singing
because i sounded so cringey
i tune my voice down
just like i always do

started to get anxiety over singing on a stage
even though i loved it
adored it
i let their words get stuck in ears' cobwebs

everyone has at least one person that did something
they left a mark on you for the good
she told me one thing

"i like your voice because when you allow it, you can sing like a angel but your expression is what amazes me, you seem so happy."

now i'll never stop
because of those words
you can scream at me to stop
however i won't
for my voice is not your's to control but mine to wield
and i'll sing when i please

People always ask me why I photograph,

I often tell them-

I photograph because some people have foggy lenses, and some people have foggy mirrors.

~A Photographer

Everything is falling apart and
i cant fix anything because of my broken heart, which
never stops beating even when
i'm begging it to
just
stop screaming.

There's parts of me that wonder if you're doing okay
or if once again your mind is fading away because
i see the cuts on your body and
you really have to find a new hobby
other
than killing yourself.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day
Or something less written and more expressed
To something less expressed and more instinct
To what the hopeful oil feels as it burns bright?
What atom makes you? What worker formed you?
What factory sent bone chalk, called it art
Without mentioning it is mere carbon
Tints and inks of filthy purpose, broken shells?
No, I won't compare thee to the words used
To call pomp, genius, hope and meaning
I can't use symbols, smudges have more thought
In what you are, in what nature hopes of you
Only the woven mist can explain clouds
As only the pencil can explain you