How to be scared of the unknown
For there is nothing to see or hear;
For us to fear

Knowing a truth, but telling all lies;
Seeing a scute, saying a hide
Hearing a hoot, saying a cry
Feeling a root, saying a snipe  

What is seen behind a light
What is seen late at night
What is seen walking alone
What is seen inside a  home

Looking at nothing;
But something in truth
A dark figure
A monster askew,
A hand on the wall
A blur of blue

What is perceived to be;
Is suddenly  true
Says the fox,
With no sympathy for you;
A meal on mind,
Which  makes you food

When fear is analyzed
truth shines through,
Lies realized
A scute
A hoot
A root
A shadow, clear as day
A fan creaking as you lay
A light switch there lay, on the wall at night

The Unknown is oblivion,
For there is no end
See what you want;
Night or day
Clear as water;
Affected by a ripple
A ripple caused by you;
Unhappy with the reflection

A conundrum that can't be tested, even how hard you try to exercise every specific. Just ail parts on a spinning axis with no conclusion! The conclusion to test the bewildered expression of pieces without there own thoughts. Feelings resort to compassion. Excluding the taste all together. It’s messy how something exists, which has no theme to what they are, and how one is tested. Tested to take your parts and find some commonality with more existing parts that urge the taste of compassion. A taste with its sense of propriety. Justification to mount moral terms with oneself. Oneself can’t tell itself apart. Only pieces trying to organize itself while spinning their connections down the rut! Permanent desire to fetch them out of the phase that’s established its original premise. Originality has no qualms with the likes of compassion. Setting up without any discernible corrections. Meant for outsiders within themselves to judge, plan, and exercise, without mercy to anything but oneself. Spinning axis burns desires upon urges that breakdown over time. The spinning pace doesn’t stop, until you stop and learn what truly is happening. Pieces remain in the rut. The rut full of many spread out phases too much to take in all at once. Plans don’t go to your agreement. Something outside oneself has yet to appreciate yourself, and what you have to offer. Except how does one do that when many pieces are too spread out for one to notice? Every specific is already radiating like a charged particle. Charging too much friction between one another. Trying not to lose one another in the constant spin of irony. Irony devoted without practice. Practice makes time for oneself to finally notice the originality of its premise isn’t truly spinning on its axis. It’s actually strolling for one’s interpretations to finally notice its static charge. The different pieces are holding on. Fetching the obvious back into circulation. Circulation outmatched not by itself. But by perception of a fully established sense of self.

‘Tis a paradox life

One picks up a blade
without yet first conquering oneself

One judges
preceding the revision of oneself

One awaits heaven on earth
without attempting to create serendipity for oneself

One expects love
yet can’t foster the courage
to give it to oneself

The very sword that divides
the world
is the same sword that divides oneself

Earth hath no existence
save the reflection one gives

No isolation to be made of
Heaven, Earth, and Hell
since they coexist within
oneself

One may not be able to change the world
but
can’t one change their own?

I finally found the answers
To the questions I thought were unknown
I shall forever remain a lone wolf
This boat of mine will never reach shore

The wind blows my strawberry-blond hair
And I think long and hard at where my ancestors came from
On a small ship that traveled a great length
When my mind is thinking
I think about all of the skills that I have mastered
The string going through one hands and the hook in the other
Waving in and out of each other

A pencil in mine hand gliding across the paper in front of me
Without any hesitation
I think again to realize this is the front that I put up on display for every one
It is what they see and learn about me
That surprises them
It’s a matter of asking the right questions
That will lead to what is unknown to them

She who doubt herself never gone outside
Afraid if she does
She might make mistakes
However never in her wildest dream did she know
What's waiting outside
Is a helping hand
A friend who silently looks out for her
Waiting that once she walk outside her comfort zone
She will be welcome with the sweetest smile
And a warmest hug
A friend who loves her so dearly