Do I have to sign it? It's not like it belongs to me Every thought I ever had Came to be Do I have to own it? Or can I set it free. My art your heart Your art my heart We are meant to be free.

Wild thought What if we can just breathe Allow the existence to unfold As it will Wild thought What if you can just be Free from all you have to achieve Wild thought What if energy is real And all you need Is set yourself free?

Faith is a concept of knowing the result Before the result happens In the space deep within Somewhere between the corner of my heart and my liver Lies a knowing of the path in front Softly I shatter the boundaries of old beliefs To let the little spark shine brightly My fears shrink to the size of a peanut Too stale to eat Too tasty to pass I chat with the imaginary futures With the roads unfolding Guided exclusively by inner wisdom Gathered through torture of the past We are

I will plant flowers Where I grow Where my feet land I will sow a meadow Excuse the smell of Roses They are deliberate Planned Thought out Nurtured Through the Manure of the Past Fertilised By tears and regret Yes, they are pink Would you have Considered them Any other color? Yes, They have thorns. I left them in case The enemies approach. You know, The enemies… The ones who Gave you shit You had to process To make manure In the first place. So, I will plant roses As you watc

There is always a choice Left and right Up or down Stop Before you rush Into the unknown Guided exclusively By random feelings Of what is Feel the choice Let it sit in your Bones Pause Before you act There is always a Choice Rest assured If nothing else You can be sure of That

In a different life I would be surrounded By flowers On a soft meadow Within a castle Yet I am here On the sofa Amidst the Furniture Clothes and dishes There is no point In dreaming I realize Life Has a way of Unfolding Mysteriously logical In it's own ways Without the option To fight the Path Life is not court You can't plea To judge that you are Not guilty The punishment is The existence you Have You can't ask the lawyer To defend you For smaller sentence The verdict is

The poem has silenced Crumbled in the hands of "I am fine" I am un-pathetically "OK" So what is the point Of bleeding letters On this empty paper If the sorrow disappears The verse also leaves Empty are the hands Of a happy artist.