This mountain. Where ravens live
With runaway kids-poets
This mountain
Where I still hear songs of nations long gone
This mountain
Where children speak to crows
This mountain
Where everything has a meaning
This mountain
Where little kids perform those sacred dances
This mountain
Where where there's no end to symbols
This mountain
Where children work miracles each day
This mountain
Where everyday their ghosts fade away

I pushed everyone away
'Cause I didn't want to stay
This can't be the only thing left

Inside of me
I failed myself
Feeding the negative thoughts,
with harsh put downs.

Trusted lies, because facing the truth,
desires bold courage
I tire of being stepped on-
However wanting no existence,
is the same as labeling one's self,
as a doormat.
Just because  you aren't alone-
does not mean you can't feel lonely

I'm used to everything being thrown back at me.
Who are you to point the blaming finger?
I now know full fault does not lie solely with me.

Coursing through are strange pangs.
Stating that not all can be closed-
without effort and inner will.

No one needs me and I'm fine with it
I am odd and ain't simple. So deal with it
I've given up hoping that someone will come
That's how a loner one has become
Freedom is something I love most
And I shall keep it whatever the cost
Alive thanks to the dreams
not in despair, through that's how it seems
I love being different and this is my creed
'Cause being normal is boring indeed

She drifted through the night,
Feeling nothing and everything all at once.
The music beat deep in her core
Pulsing harder than her own soul.
Her skin was caressed,
Touched,
Tasted,
But she could only float.
She admired the strangeness of it all,
Arms stretched to the sky.
Her body twisted and shimmered
As she gave her all to the thought of flight.

Precious little things of life,
little moments we spent together at some point in time,
somewhere prior in our life.

Strange are the ways of life,
since memories are cherished,
moments remembered,
irrespective of the fact that both belong to the same period of time.
Definitely discretion is part of human nature and also part of life.

Life continues along with the same in mind,
moments we spent together at some point in time,
life continues remembering those moments as of now at the present moment in time.

Life continues along with the present moment in time, which very soon will become a thing of past
Life continues from one moment to the next
Life continues from one day of a week to the next
Life continues from one week to next week of same month
Life goes on from one month to next month of same year, so on and so forth.

Life continues
Life goes on
Life remains

The search is for a desire of which once there was a complete desire to get something like this done with regards to what was thought in the mind at that point in time and at that moment.
As of now at the present moment in time in the present, the same desire seems to have settled down.

Definitely time and tide waits waits for none and so does life, which continues to move ahead along with the passing moment in time.

Life continues
Life goes on.
Life remains.
Life follows with regards to what happened prior at some point in time in life, somewhere around in the past.

I've always liked the unpredictable,
the stranger things,
always had a scent for weirdness
Normal is horrible, mainstream is not for me
I like crazy and crazy likes me

If I'm mental,
the world is my hospital,
my friends are my doctors
Being different for me,
is being myself,
open and free,
in a world that is filled with plastic...

Your strange self captures my wicked heart
You're one of my own,
let's go together into the unknown

I find myself
I'm dead in an ink page
Hostage in your photos
I'm sorry, sad I find living up to myself a scary ideal

But really, all I am is the clacking of teeth
And those who don't hesitate to remind me
Aren't nice, aren't my friends really,
'*** friends don't talk philosophy

I'm looking for what I see as me
I'm tired - worn raggish
I'm hopeless and bored
And fickle in the words I write

Ink paint is tinted blood
Water colour is see-through meaning
Mish, mash, mosh
Nice to meet what you see as me

Under the clocks there was a man
Whom I saw beside the ticket machine.

Passengers of the train
Come and go
Towards a destination of their own,
But he seems already at home
Under the clocks, below the railways;
Or is the station his only find?
Dressed in confusion and mental
Isolation from the sight of
Busy Melbournians.

Left to be sold to
First impressions and
Entertainment for the passersby,
But he receives none
Of their trampling feet
And their questioning eyes:

For when he shouted mumbling
Words at men with
Badges and gun machines,
As they did their inspection
In and out of his clothes and his
Bare feet,
He knows one thing and
One thing only -

He has a place to go,
But where?