Writing, in my opinion, is about putting our imaginations on paper; there will undoubtedly be mistakes along the way, but if we stick with it, we will eventually succeed.

The Vincent of the gloom
Does not have her wings clipped in glass
For she is tucked beneath
Away with an empty scar

She cannot eat
Nor smell, nor breath
And yet she is living
On the edge of the keep

The time has acclimated
Her with things that share the way
The forbidden songs
And the voices of the hay

Yet the scar remains so different
As he stays as he has
He scowls at the panes
Who can't play again their act

Mister, Mister
She says with twinkle in her heart
Cherish not the emptiness
For the wind is not our part

You have sight to see
It takes meaning in the metal
A suburban old
When gets rotted by a petal

Why do you wish to drown?
Is mirror to the self, a phony
The storm may never hit the town
If you are with and not in it

Let the time flow
Love will rise from its fables
As your heart grows
In the side of a cold mason

Get up, feel the bigger picture
Does your paint, only fills the silence?
Rest you may in the controversies
My mind only loves the violence.

Read More

Although life actually has no purpose, it is beautiful because we may give it one, either for ourselves or for others.

"Seeking acceptance is just like the storm clouds; they always pour sans gazing at each other."

"The most inventive works emanate from within four walls of something, but since they barely exist, we construct them to suit us."

"We often scurry and hide from fear, but we do so with the certainty that it is he who is petrified of missing us."