I stand at the shore of an ocean
vast, uncrossable waters
between me and my salvation
I could swim, but for how long?

how long before my limbs give out
my lungs searing in my chest
metal in my throat
salt in my mouth

so I stay on the shore
(metal in my throat
salt in my mouth)
feet on the ground

a gentle patter of rain
tapping politely
at the window
not tempestuously
but imposing enough
in its constancy
a passive aggressive reminder
from the heavens
of our ultimate
lack of control
such a minor obstacle
and yet it tips
the scales of
what was planned
or hoped for
to something perhaps
unforeseen
not yet considered
i thought i had
no intention of
leaving the house
but find myself
rolling my eyes
with huff and sigh
cursing the grey
for ruining
that potential

by lunchtime
windscreens glisten with
newly welcomed sunlight
reflected blindingly
from droplets that linger
despite the fresh warmth
carried in the convective air
it no longer appears
to be "coat weather"
though the ground
is still puddled
to squelch or
splash underfoot
perhaps i could venture
outside after all
with a motivation
fuelled by this
latest change
but for all the blue
stretching the sky
there is still that
darkened mass of cloud
hanging heavy in the distance
unable to tell if it has
been weathered already
or is another downpour
yet to come

i would like
to keep bees
or at least
i like the idea
of keeping bees
to be honest
i know nothing
next to nothing
about all that
it entails
but it seems like
it would be cathartic
although their frenzies
may be calmed
by the smoke
movements must remain
slow and gentle
such fragility
must be tended to
   carefully
   mindfully
almost lovingly
i think i like
the idea of the peace
to be found in
those moments
there is a
shade-dappled spot
at the bottom
of the garden
that would be
the perfect place
for them
where the humming
of the hive
would accompany
the swaying of
the tree's
their gentle whispering
and the quietude
that would settle
beyond

That road I planned
Is merely a plan.
No dent, no mark,
No foot print of mine.
A clean canvass
With no acrylic colors,
An untouched paper
Without a sketch.

Sometimes I think
What road should it be.
Mine or theirs,
What should it be.

I go with mine,
I'll be happy
Right?

Când mă uit seara la stele - ea strălucește;
Dar când mă uit dimineața la stele - ea încă strălucește.

Cred că soția lui Heisenberg a fost cea mai futută femeie.

i can feel the passion slowly fading.
when faced with blank pages, i spew nothing
but empty words and meaningless sentences,
so superficial, overflowing with pretenses.

oh, how i miss the wide-eyed writer I used to be:
the type to pour his whole heart and soul into his stories.
now, i'm stuck chasing the words that were once mine,
stuck wondering if i'll ever get back my shine.

I get quiet when I’m scared
Nervous, when I feel unprepared
I get anxious when I’m alone
Lonely, when I lose sight of myself;
Ungrounded
Far from home....