The Art

I miss the art like I miss the rain in seasons of drought

but I must refrain you drive me insane with doubt

The art is still painted from the heart

Since the start of notion in motion of light and dark

I see it’s an endless Journey so close but so far away together we embark

The art of the Truth and of a story to tell

I miss them told if they were told well

The art of life and its death

art of Beauty with love and with hate

All amongst our great

Beyond heaven and Hell’s Gate

So when we place upon canvas or wickedly depicted with pen

Remember we are all one on this Earth or Eden

And though we change slightly it’s our Same Love no matter now or then

And seeing you is just a matter of when


Internal Reflection

Trapped in a mirror of altered perspective , as opinion becomes like reality in the way it is reflective, I practice patients and become carefully analytical and selective, as to what I will allow you to place subjective, until I find what with me is your objective.

I write here in this book with rhyme
Because it is the only way I break free from what you call time,
And I can view on my own in my zone and take my mind to a place almost blind
The place where you cannot restrict cannot bind and cannot leave behind
Alone being with out essence of presence but actual existance with no resistance
This place where all is one , where im not oppressed with opinions plaguing the understandings of what you think you know
Beyond what you wish me to show
And beyond the progression or expectations or obsessions in what we reap or sew
The place where one can see, one can grow
Without being told it is or isnt so
Is the place I still know
And to it you cannot go
Until you give such peace
You gain not such release
That should answer all your misplaced resentments with ease