To truthTo truthTo truth
I don't wish for all the answers, for if I knew they'd be worthless - and I'd have outlived my purpose.
I wish not to shed light on every secret, because I know what daylight would ruin.
While no question should go unexplored some answers may be adored or ignored; no truth survives the outside world.
And with all the solutions you need only peek within. The outside world may or may not shape you, but for your truth to be told you must subdue her.
To freedomTo freedomTo freedom
A heart is beating rapidly, but the courage is fleeting. Fears and hopes are meeting like a damsel in distress and her mighty savior.
"Is every breath setting me free with bounds slowly breaking?" "Are these chafing bonds loosening and is my heart done aching?"
Fear is like a wet dog - felt the rain falling - and in turn is comforted with dry hope, a promise made for breaking; hopes sweeping away in a warm summer's breeze.
"How I want to liberate myself so. Let go of these rules that confine me." "And to realize that the only freedom I'm ever going to get i
Blind romanticsBlind romanticsBlind romantics
"Only freedom to find, when you look inside". The mantra of romantics now blind.
Our definition determined by the mission. What defines us to others is still just the veneer. Democracy in our heart and breath merely austere.
This land of so-called liberty is home to us. In this wasteland of blind romantics, we dare not transgress
boundaries of the mind - laid in excess.
Fighting forever feverishly for freedom. At the same time we tie our leash, not to hang, but to stop the bleeding.
Go to work, send your kids
VineyardVineyardVineyard
I once walked past an apple tree. To some degree more free than me.
While I was walking, the tree could not. Still it was swaying a bit, nodded and rocked.
Wind journeyed towards us. Hailing cheerlessly, waking me up.
I noticed I had become like a statue - glued to the spot.
It took some wind to find, rewind and unwind. Before the chilling breeze hit, I was unable to admit that the tree was merely resting; not caring a bit.
Hidden MagicMagic GardenHidden Magic
She walks through the grave stones, Through the gritty dirt, Her soft feet sink through the mud, As her eyes shine off the Moonlight.
She walks through the dead tress, Through the frigid air, Death stinks and reeks around her, Yet her gaze never falters.
She continues to walk, Through the destruction and despair, Mother Moon cries, But not tears of sorrow.
She feels the dead trees, Through her fingers a light reveals, The trees sigh as her fingers leave, Their color returning and leaves blooming.
Devious Journal Entry
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