The constantly desire of
Death:
Sickness.

The awareness of
Feelings:
Intelligence.

The merciless
Desire of
Distance:
Wisdom.

Everything in a
Nutshell.

The clock is a lie,
Imposter of time.
An original word,
Represented with rhyme.

The clock is insignificant,
Time though, is power.
The space between breaths,
Not the chime of the hour.

Similar in nature,
The difference is clear.
The clock Is a tool,
Yet time we fear.

Trying to stop it,
The clock was made,
But you can't stop reality.
Eventually we all fade.

These are writers hands of mine
thinking in verse and prose
trying to convey my heart to my head
and make sense of it all
they feel the vibrations
of the surrounding
they move like the crow and swallow
rapid
always watching with wisps and twarts
dancing in the sunlight and rain alike
half and half they are
my duality
or practicality and lust
callused and worn
they have been and will be with time
as it whisks me away
age may creek into my bones
the creases may sink
and veins raise
but they will remain to move the same
they are my expression
for often my voice refuses to work
my writing words are able to stay between
while my heart may wander
and my head become frustrated and stuck
perhaps they will be my wisdom
perhaps they will become my eyes
to see every day anew
to smell the flowers
and ignore the hours as they will pass all the same

I am a little prince
Living on a planet
Far too small for you to see
Here is a million stars
But a single flower
To spend all the sunsets with.

Bussinessmen and Tippler's words
They sound as I'm left by birds
With a friend to
Forever last.
And if I could make you mine
You say there's one last goodbye
For you and me
To get past.

What if I didn't care
Would the tress out-grow me?
And sheeps eat my little rose?
Being old is to count
Everything that matters
Grown-ups they're all too weird.

A lamplighter lights the fire
A man lives by his desire
A prince has tamed a fox
'cause his heart is enough.

But now I have to leave
To my little planet
I think someone there needs me.