Why...New members

Why poetry?
Why breathe.
Why feelings?
Why needs.

I need expression
I need words
There are exceptions
Rarely heard

I have desires
I have dreams
Ever expanding
So it seems…

Farming colony.
Garden, botany.
Courses watering.
Quartered, property.

Haunted harboring.
Gothic, quality.
Cons and robbery.
Audit, warranty.

Cosmic worshipping.
Mars, cryptography.
Farce astrology.
Darkened, artistry.

Common harlotry.
Charmed, ontology.
Starlet falsity.
Palms, impossibly.

Cards of augury.
Gone, autonomy.
Scarlet progeny.
Sodom, sorcery.

Tarnished pondering.
Causes, thoughtfully.
Bartered honesty.
Hardened, heartily.

Vaunted varsities.
Scholars, bodily.
Largest novelty.
Garments, paucity.

Opted mockery.
Taunting, haughtily.
Bargained barbary.
Quarrel, glossary.

Partial policies.
Startled, awkwardly.
On to armory.
Hearken, cautiously.

Wrought misogyny.
Sought, remarkably.
Wrong equality.
Jobs, despondency.

Our economy.
Fond, anomaly.
Stark hypocrisy.
Jarring, awfully.

All is poverty.
Sardis, Socrates.
Warring oddity.
Warning, prophecy.

Armies cost us peace.
Bombing, solemnly.
God will stop these deeds.
Paul, apostasy.

Martyr prodigy.
Spotless, offering.
Called comradery.
Posture, properly.

Harness constantly.
Product, awesomely.
Sharpen conquering.
Yahweh, fatherly.

Guarded promising.
Psalms, admonishing.
John's biography.
Proverbs, compassing.

When I paint everything melts away. It is just me and the brush nothing else matters . Everything that was trapped in me flows  freely unto the canvas ,I feel  ,and find peace. With every stroke, and and every squeeze of the paint tube I become whole . The closest to heaven one can experince while breathing . Through my art I can breathe .



When I paint everything melts away. It is just me and the brush nothing else matters . Everything that was trapped in me flows  freely unto the canvas ,I feel  ,and find peace. With every stroke, and and every squeeze of the paint tube I become whole . The closest to heaven one can experince while breathing . Through my art I can breathe .

As my room fills with the aroma of warmth and vanilla, the gentle glow pouring over me and my walls . the ethereal beauty of the flame as it crackles and dances in its glass . as the world succumb to slumber i come alive , haunted by words beseeching to be freed of my mind , entranced by the sound of the paper as the pen glides as if on its own accord, delighted by the sound of the keys in their rhythmic cadence . words flowing just as if they were alive all along . through the music of the night , and the light of the moon i become putty to my words allowing them to use me as their canvas .