Art
is like worshiping god
With the purest of intention
Of surrendering to master
Pouring the love in the form of art as a mark of devotion
Art is melting oneself to the mould of the form
Lifting the soul to reach beyond the worldy consideration

Art is beauty in the eyes of the artist
It is love beyond comparison
It is promise unbreakable
It is the faith and believe of one's existence

No rewards and recognitions matter
When it's deeply pursued from heart
Love and devotion feeds the soul
When cherised in the form of art


Manisha

That little boy I once knew, he was so young, innocent in years
always with a faint smile on his face, but I perceived his fears
the world engulfed him, he had only been waiting for a friend
to make sense of everything, someone to help him comprehend

Those were very many years ago, but his image forever remains
so lonely has that little boy become, and now my very own pains
time continues to tick away, and the years seem to hasten ahead
the tomorrows were once my hope, have now become my dread

This world I no longer face, my pain and anguish unable to ignore
a vision of what I have become, now burns me from my very core
that fabricated happiness I once knew, fled from an illusionary vice
the toll on that little boy remains, because no one will pay the price

That little boy that I once knew, so young, so very innocent in years
no longer has a faint smile on his face, and only I can feel his tears
the world is his enemy, trust has become malignant, no friend exists
trials and tribulations acerbate, shame and mental anguish persists

Although those were many years ago, I am still haunted by the sight
all that I now experience only blinds me, I can no longer see the light
once positive and full of life, replaced by failed dreams is what remain
always reminded of what I have not become, is forever to be my shame

What can be said when the truth has been shed, you know in the final sum
what you now are is what you've become, and you can't help but feel numb
you sweet little boy, how I need to hold you so, oh how can I set you free
time has forgotten to remove our tears, yes, this little boy, that little boy-- is me

Gentle dabs at the window, still.  
Maybe the clouds dip their pureness here,
purposely.

Even the greatest angel was envious–
this wickedness, these slopes and steeps–

This is humanity.

The **** on her heart
tore open, and spilled into the sea--
I had seen this and dove in.

Her heart was a fountain, and I looked to it
as a source of purity.

I think the sea will welcome you
For I've seen it in your eyes a hundred times,
And heard it crashing through your voice.
I think it has much to teach you in wildness
For you hold in you the same immense, awesome power
It wields when it crushes ships
And batters cliffsides smooth,
And the same silvered grace
It sways with when the moon trails her fingers through the waves on clear nights.

It does not apologize for its savagery,
For the way it rakes its fingers across the shore,
The way it takes.
It cannot be small.
It cannot be meek.
It cannot be silent.
It cannot be
Tame-
Its gentleness and its violence are lovers, ever embracing
And it has never wondered
Why.

It IS, and it is
Exquisite in its rawness.
It can be smooth as glass, murmuring its great hush to the sands
And yet it can within a moment
Rage!
With no shame, no restraint,
Uncontainable and
Unignorable.

I see all of this beneath your skin when your face darkens and you think no one has noticed.
I see your vastness, pressing out,
And I see you soothe it back into silence.
I see it and it moves me toward it like the tide
With its feral beauty,

Yes-
I imagine the ocean will rejoice to rise around you and hold you up as a part of it,
For there are some people- I've said as much-
Who belong to the earth in a special way.
People whose feet the ground worships
And whose face the wind kisses
And whose fingers the grasses reach for.

People whose eyes
The sea lives in.

I imagine it waits for you.

The bastardization
of our language
continues apace.

Consider the word

wonderful.

It originally meant:

amazement just beyond
comprehension.

Now we use it to mean nice.
That's a wonderful dress;
She is a wonderful person.
We had a wonderful dinner.

When I call you wonderful,
I mean that even in my arms
you are a mystery
I cannot quite solve,
amazing beyond my knowing.

Remember that Love.

You are the lock I can
fiddle with forever
but never quite open.

The bud I cannot
tease to blossom.

The meaning in my heart,
I'll never know for sure.

Love was meant to be
eternal mystery.

That is why it is *wonderful.

As pure as water can be, in an affluent and wealthy country,
My soul has a Cornelian dilemma when it comes to purity.

How can we be good people when we live so easily?
Innocents are dying of thirst and I take a bath every other day.

Does it really count if one buys organic and fair-trade items,
When it is that easy, that accessible, and they are still hungry over there?

But what else are we allowed to do, that is not too compelling?
What can our money do, when all it does now constrain others?

I try every day to be as good, as pure, as I am able to
Though I still feel futile, small... and unrealistically optimistic.

Serenity coils like a Babylonian serpent
around simplicity and sincerity.
The soul burns eternal, perennial fathoms
of expansion and purity in wisdom and the search
for the crown of grace in this reality.
A crown not made of gold.

Purified by the water
Holy oil in the water
New life
New way
New thoughts
Pure soul
Beautiful life