art, introspection, pain, philosophy, Poetry, spirituality

Naive Wishes

Paint me with naive wishes 

They are the only ones worth having 

Haven’t learned fear 

Haven’t known failure 

Still have the time to prove 

Paint me with with naive hope 

That has every reason to go on forever 

Doesn’t need to be realistic

Doesn’t feel pressured to be responsible 

Young enough to know no limits

Paint me with naive love 

That blooms in every young soul 

Unabashed 

Unbridled 

Unflinching 

In the face of every sad love song

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art, introspection, philosophy, Poetry, spirituality, Uncategorized, Watercolor

“The Process” Live Prose

How am I supposed to feel? Where should I be at this age? What can bring me fulfillment? Achievement gives me fulfillment. Respect. . . and being a part of a community. I find making other people happy fulfilling. I like being appreciated. I like feeling valuable to others. I want to be special. I like to express my “special” ness. How? How can I let people know what’s going on in here?

I have been given inspiration by others. Musicians make me feel things. My heart beats when I feel it. My senses light up a little and I get high. I feel a tiny piece of how alive they must feel when they hear their own voice and expression cutting out into the world. I want to make my cut. I want to cut open my own hard shell and let myself out. I feel so dormant and faded.

What would I ever do if I lost that part of myself? If I have ever dreaded something, I dread forgetting how to feel.

I feel angry.
I feel tingling on my skin.
I want to punch something.
But I also want to lay down and dream.
I want people to see who I am
. . . but that doesn’t make sense because I’m so private.

I want to create meaning.

Creativity and expression give me something to live for. Why do I feel so drugged about sharing myself though. Do I have anything to give? What difference can I make? I want to make an impact somehow.

. . . but even as I’m saying this I feel tired. I feel like I can’t. I feel damp.

How do I put myself in inspiration’s way? How do I make good on life’s promise? Is the question the destination? Is this process the art?

I believe in the process.

I’ve always loved the phrase, “Where do I go from here?” How do I translate what it means to exist as me into a hearable, manifestable expression? Is anyone listening to hear? Or do I just need to do it, so I can hear my own voice?

art, death, introspection, philosophy, Poetry, spirituality, Uncategorized

What Runs Deep

I just let my feelings pour out like a vase emptying out and crashing into the drain.
I just walk into a room and my head feels like the haze of a cheering crowd.
I just lie on my bed and the tingling on my skin makes my hairs prick up.
I just get tired when I am sitting and when you’re talking to me.
I just suck in my breath, and I don’t know how to let it go.
Then it just grows in me, and breaks out in tears.