Be the Warmth.

The cold will endure until the fire is lit to fill us with warmth. The branches won’t bend till their ice has melted away. Our hearts will not wake till we feel everything’s at stake. Our hands need to light the fire that will burn our doubt to ash. The freeze within us will live until we choose to strike the match. Once the match is a flame, our bodies will do the same. Our joints will fold to caress and hold; the trees will sway as if the ice never once stayed. It is up to us to make this world of difference; to live and to love above the eternal flame. It is our journey to lead a life of everlasting light.


Poetry & Prose

He will not surrender to any force. Whether it be the strike of a lightning bolt or the jab of a switch blade, nothing will tear down his frame. He doesn't bend and he will not break. No one will ever be able to know the mistakes that he makes; he isn't aware of them either. His intentions are carved in stone - to him, every action has a blame. Before he leaves Earth, humanity will have all once pronounced his name. He is poetry, unlike prose. No pause, or breaks, or hesitates; he moves in the momentum of the bold. When one shrub is passed it's pushed, flattened and slashed. There is no returning, and absolutely no mourning. He can feel for what has been shoved, but he walks along remembering where he belongs. Because even if he cares, he could not dare to drop his legend, to live complacent in love.


Be yond.

We have to do more than we imagine we can.
We have to inspire by humiliating ourselves.
We must leave our comfort to find the value in comfort.
We must show strength no matter how weak we feel.
We must remember that this is life and we are real.


Dear Universe,

You have been kind to me.
You provided me with life,
and air, and a land to roam.
You were simple and serene;
a place to love and be.
Discovering you meant discovering me
and I wish I had that courage when I first had eyes to see.
Everything you are is everything I am,
still I'm preoccupied with "who I have to be".
Passionate about tangibility,
worshipping the culture of accessory.
Loosing grip of my immortal energy,
claiming illusion to be reality.
But even worse, treating what's tempory
as though it'd last forever.


thin as wind

Sitting still with winds around me.
Circles over cirles, Time is passing through me.
There isn't nothing that I can't do
Free of form, I feel out-of-body.
The secrets that once were are no longer hiding.


And she feels so despaired. Her eyes sell lies at low price and he tells her that it’s nice. That's where it stays because that's where it’s played: On the surface - for rent, never by owner. Whoever can stay long enough eventually discovers her basement, where ghosts linger and her histories are hidden. It's then, when the dust is blown off and her true color is risen.
Do they remain, or do they then leave? It becomes a burden they usually abandon.
They word it like this though, “That girl's crazy, yo.”
“She’s fine, but she’s psycho."
This is how the boys explain what they don’t understand, and they go on searching for a perfect woman, without ever becoming a man. Some run that race til they’re about forty. I wonder, do they ever grow to be men who can comfort a woman when she's hurting? If he hadn't stopped at the surface of her blue eyes, he could have seen past her disguise. And she would have known he meant it, saving her from more lies to be accepted.