Deep in the dark of the night,

from the storm in my heart, words that were my thoughts.

Words that I wrote.


some were blue with sadness, some were yellow in joy

others were red through passion.

All but many colors of one feeling.


Shiny ink flowed into the last word,

lit by my feeble light.

clouds rushed by in the dark sky,

lit by gentle starlight.


I went to the place my heart sought,

finding the lovely image my words sought to paint.

Placing at her feet, and at her mercy,

all that I had written.


A silence came upon us.
I thought: What use could she possibly find for these?
I did not buy them from anyone, nor did I fight anyone for these.
How could they possibly fit her?

As I walked home,
holding my precious words, I scattered them into the wind and sun.

Far away, a little girl picked them up
and read.
Hugging them, she wrote books that were read tirelessly.
Read by all, except one and another.

Integrity The quality of being honest and having strong moral principles; moral uprightness.

[Integrity] is a personal choice, an uncompromising and predictably consistent commitment to honor moral, ethical, spiritual and artistic values and principles.[1]
In ethics, integrity is regarded by many people as the honesty and truthfulness or accuracy of one's actions. Integrity can stand in opposition to hypocrisy,[2] in that judging with the standards of integrity involves regarding internal consistency as a virtue, and suggests that parties holding within themselves apparently conflicting values should account for the discrepancy or alter their beliefs.

These three hundred dollar candles on this table
Are challenging their value over me
Sorry I'm not specially scented
I'm speaking to a candle, I must be heavily demented
I don't belong in this Italian Restaurant
I might challenge their romanticness
Polish and prestine
Just a toast for Christine
I'm not the biggest spender for tiny appiitizers

Dancing by,
A dead eyed darling,
As passersby cry out her praises:
"Such energy!
Such passion!"
She shrugs out a smile
As her shoulders start
Collapsing in on themselves.
Wear long sleeves
To disguise decaying flesh
And frankincense and myrrh
To disguise inevitable death,
Shaking hands with toothy monsters
And hand-made paperweight professionals
Who enter the threshold of accidentally
Pulling off a frail finger.
Pinned to a board of ages,
Chronically captured chronologically wrong:
"You seem so much older! You are so mature!"
Placing, onto fifth-grade-science-project bones,
A corset of expectations and
A garter of gold,
The tiny bird of a girl
Can't hear her songs over the
Sound of her body giving up.

Bury your wishes for me next to my corpse.

When the days are so boring and tiring for you
when the moment is no more exciting like we used to do
when the sun is not helpful with its scorching rays
like the flower that is now in its wilting days


When the tune is no more a music to the ear
when the photo is unattractive and not so dear
when the painting is blurred and not good to see
like an inkless pen, now there's nothing in me

The memory is a precious thing
   Of what truths it can bring?

I remember being young
And hating the waiting to be old
Remembering the grown ups
   And the stories they told
Of being young, wild and free
I don't think that was ever me
  I grew up fast with an alcoholic dad
Always scared of making him mad
   He was tall and strong
Couldn't ever be wrong
But you see...
The
       value
              of
                   this
                          memory....

     Is that it's simply a reminder
Because it's no longer true
    He worked really hard
And pulled himself through
He's still very tall and strong
      But admits when he is wrong
He truly loves and deeply cares
    See why I value this memory?
Why it means so much to me?
It proves the
                 truth
                         will
                                set
                                     you
                                            free..