Outings

Letting the inside, fully take-outside of you.
From what we are.
and what we’ve been through.

the complexity of our images,
allure the whole new feeling,
that we won’t fight away without the night by our side.

and when we’ve given enough thought to our lives about where we’ve been,
spending those times with people and places and scenarios upon scenarios.

We run to escape the times.

Yet the anti still chases my mind through the light.
Stuck, is what it feels like.
But that’s not what I am.

The Lonely and I

green walkway

The blue wave sounds corresponds like freeway traffic
flowing
moving,
let me revisit my self,
let me revisit my self,
reflections of the sky and the sky moved
towards my melting soul, in the ground uplifted
by the lavished movements made by memories of today.

Release

Obsession, obliterated the constraints. 
Solitude, fastened the catalyst.The catalyst is my release,
And in isolation,
The beloved and cursed,
behaves and warmly insulates me,
In the dance around a flame.

Alleviate, sequences that reminisce,
of an allegory that never dies.
Experiment with eyes shut,
The openness of mindlessness,
an absence of restraint,
annihilate what used to keep me here,
disconnected,
manic depression is a parenthetic severity with nothing to recollect,
with a home – at rest – I’ll never forget. 

Unfold

Remember the time,

The sunset ran away?

The moonrise was slowly welcoming us,

and the music ran a little longer than we expected.

The scent of your flowers seeped through the backseat,

and you turned around to grab them,

placed them on your lap,

and wished this moment would come along once again.

We don’t love enough unless there’s a reason to replace the pain,

we wildly hop into the backseat and trace a brand new pain,

and time is running forward, it hurts to see it end,

We don’t love enough unless there’s a reason to leave,

we unwillingly climb back to the front when we’re finished,

unfolding our wretched souls,

bending it to mend a new home,

hopeful of a time we can run away with the sunset,

and our passion can rise like the moon again,

and the music can run a little longer than expected,

and our minds can unfold like a blooming affair. 

“Art does not address herself to the specialist” (Oscar Wilde)

Originally posted on Biblioklept:

The appeal of all Art is simply to the artistic temperament.  Art does not address herself to the specialist.  Her claim is that she is universal, and that in all her manifestations she is one.  Indeed, so far from its being true that the artist is the best judge of art, a really great artist can never judge of other people’s work at all, and can hardly, in fact, judge of his own.  That very concentration of vision that makes a man an artist, limits by its sheer intensity his faculty of fine appreciation.  The energy of creation hurries him blindly on to his own goal.  The wheels of his chariot raise the dust as a cloud around him.  The gods are hidden from each other.  They can recognise their worshippers.  That is all . . . Wordsworth saw in Endymion merely a pretty piece of Paganism, and Shelley, with…

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