You are the books you read, the films you watch, the music you listen to, the people you meet, the conversations you engage in.
You are what you take from these.
You are the sound of the ocean.
The fresh breath of air, the brightest light and the darkest corner.
You are a collective of every experience you have had in your life. You are every single second of every day.

So drown yourself in a sea of knowledge and existence.
Let the words run through your veins and let the colors fill your mind.

painting with our words,
a newer reality.
the desperate gasps of air
for the broken heart,
being filled with abstract,
design, fairytales.
we live in a world we create.
art is the fortress of the broken soul.

I was enriched, not casting after marvels,
But as one walking in a usual place,
Without desert but common eyes and ears,
No recourse but to hear, power but to see,
Got to love you of grace.


Subtle musicians, that could body wind,
Or contrive strings to anguish, in conceit
Random and artless strung a branch with bells,
Fixed in one silver whim, which at a touch
Shook and were sweet.


And you, you lovely and unpurchased note,
One run distraught, and vexing hot and cold
To give to the heart’s poor confusion tongue,
By chance caught you, and henceforth all unlearned
Repeats you gold.

The day we combine would be the day when this world will meet it's destination.
We would have just a fraction of time to fulfil all the desperation.
For we are like two burning stars in love.
When collide, we can set fire to the whole universe.

This gallery of shape-shifting souls
Has become a theater of the obvious

Token observations presented as
Extraordinary divine revelation

A parade of window-shopping prophets
Pointing, praying, "oooh, I want THAT one"

Stuck in a mold, how many don't know any better?
Confined to their emotions

It's All they've ever known

But that's all it takes to get your foot in the door
Of this funhouse mirror maze

Listen now to the laughter echoing against the glass
Lon Chaney guffaws at all who got lost

Hopelessly walking in circles
Hungry snakes chasing their tails

You call yourself a poet to make yourself seem deep.
Sweetie, poets are shallow pools in human shells.
There are no oceans in the heart of a poet.
If you want deep call yourself a musician or artist, never a poet.
There is nothing beautiful about being someone who bleeds unto paper,
attempting to write some sense of the life they live.
Trust me, do not be a poet if you can avoid it.

A poet lives in hell,
just empty space between stanzas.