And Again I am left alone
Into the darkness of unknown thoughts
My mind processes to get me a  throne
Set me to the  crown that had Hall of shows
Purity , Pressure and Post gets to my notes
All I have done is made me believe what is known
Neutrality, Morality and curiosity are my favourite wrong projections
All that I understand is fed into me to be a variation

The vulnerability of my life is thrown into the shadows
My cloud of loneliness is  heavily raining
Nobody is here to save me from drowning
Ignorance and unloved are major role shows
Nobody gets me but want to go bold
The only thing I hate now is me that has no goals.

"Why do people do impure things?"
Because what is pure is disputed.
Impurity often takes the form of beauty or passion that enlivens my life
Placing the special in heart
That was once an empty lot.
"So why is it called impure?"
Because beauty and passion, like other things, can cross the line of moderation
And can take the forms of
Betterment away if carried
Into excess.
Thus, it is not so much that
There is impurity as there is extremism.
This can shape a life into one
That has stopped or not begun
Any search for the depths of life.
It is not so much that there
May be impurity
But the lack of connections
Between souls and neighbors
Which form a community
That takes responsibility
For their own spiritual, mental,
Physical, and material betterment.

It's a feeling
unexplainable
unabated
unapologetic,
To see beauty in its purest form
To be seen in the most natural self,
...to LOVE
...and to be LOVED.

the water so green
the cloud so white
the sky so blue

no rambling tour guides
no scattered ruins

here
every blade of grass
every blooming flower
every towering tree
is original
and pure

here
nothing is ugly or even unattractive
everywhere is bright and transparent
there's no place to hide

nothing worth something is easy
but is this learned or a lie
because past my pupils
exists myself
exposed and cold
i just want to be pure and gold
longing for warmth
seeking purity through garbage

Sweet morning dreaming of lake dip paddling.
The sun, barely up, warmed our skin.
You dipped your paddle in the black swirling lake
and we laughed when it dripped on my chin.
Quietly gliding we passed windbent trees
That should have been dead long ago.
They seemed to grow out of age polished stone
And you dip paddled along gently slow.
The life vest, my headrest, smelled of sweet fishy lake;
I lay on the cold metal floor.
Taking much comfort in the amplified lapping
As you paddled us on to the shore.
Then we swam to cool off while the sun climbed above
We floated the hours away.
Drifting together hands clasped and eyes closed
I look back and thank God for that day