I couldn’t wait to write all day. All it takes is 15 min to detox or vent. To cleanse the pallete of the mind from utter chaos of mesh to a crystal clear zen.
It is like medicine some say, and for me it has been my survival mechanism. Every time shit gets down, I turn to the pen. But I am not surviving anymore, I am enjoying life and even then I turn to it. Could it be my hand was meant to do some writing? jaja
It’s my dream world, my escape, and sometimes my world is more beautiful than the one I see daily.
really, it is. I wish I could take you there one day. It’s my Neverland, if you may.
stay sweet, lovelies.
It’s as if the hand of the conductor decided to orchestrate its own symphony.
Captured earlier today while I was on a run. I had to stop and take it in.
Life is beautiful.
night my loves,
Have you forgotten the days when you were ash, when you lay in shadows and glittered in the mist of the moonlit night?
And your walk was humble on the ground, and you saw a miracle in a single rose and magic in the stars?
Love- my dearest.
It has always grasped you and sheltered you even when you were ash burned from the fire of a most passionate love.
You know how low one can go, low enough to think I have died and reincarnated and simply remembering that-
everything seems beautiful… like the bird singing on my windowsill this morning, up on the 11th floor of this loud city of Los Angeles, was beautiful.
Just moments of self-reflection and remembrance of the pain this peasant heart has rooted from.
love, my dearest.
I am currently hibernating in the most loudest cities there is, city of Los Angeles, but it can be done. I just ignore the sirens, the lights and the late party life. I am taking this time to reflect, and get better- lick my wounds. I’ll be back soon my loves.
what luxury to be here!
Magic is when everything is synchronized
the winds and ruffles of paper,
the rustling of trees,
the sudden dance of the leaves-
the graceful wave of a hand
a smile that melts a heart
whimsical and serendipitous
it is love at first sight
and comets at night
it is fast as lightning
so quick and gone
its faster than thought
and you stand there in awe
the white feather the floats by
the ticking clock
the shadows that pass us by
the rosebud born in the night
that full incandescent moon
magic is everywhere…
It is the desert that finds the spring
the mountain that meets the ocean
the lighting bolt born of darkness
the light at the end of the tunnel
a rainbow in the rain
magic is in the mustard seed that moves mountains
if you believe,
it can move mountains
from a believer of magic.
What happens then to that dream deferred? Was it truly your dream all along? Were you denying yourself of something? Avoiding a realization? Or naming your dream in the wrong category?
Does a dream have a different face? Or do you fail to call it by name? Do you need to dig deeper to find its name? or do you dare just say it? What if your dream is like that of all the rest-of vanity and appearance? Doesn’t it seem too unreal?-too discouraging?
Is that the dream you are chasing? Can some dreams be harmful? If so, dare I go chase it? Is there even a questioning them? Don’t all dreams come from that same stem, of life, truth and beauty? If So, my dream has to be true. Anything sprouting from that stem has to be beautiful-even if the rose has thorns. Dare I- or better off, what makes me think I am anybody not too?
Inspired by Langston Hughes, “Harlem”
Those who speak of importance speak of necessity
we must have air to breathe,
food to eat,
a shelter to sleep
a coat- some warmth- at least!
Speak no more of necessities!
It dissatisfies me
it is but a life with no meaning, no feeling
I need love to breathe, affection to eat!
love feeds the hungry soul
laughter warms it
affection shelters it
I live for I breathe for beyond the cravings of the flesh
I live for I breathe for a spiritual sense!