In the world we live in

the world we created

the entire food supply

is distributed

for money

only

What you deserve to eat,

if you deserve to eat at all,

is determined by how much money

a person has

in order to pay for the food.

Food.

Food grown from our own earth.

Our obsession is a disturbing common acceptance

that directly contradicts any compassion

we claim to exist with…

…and it must stop!

af

(written with pen on paper)

I am so intimidated by writing

there is always too much

and I feel too narcissistic telling you

the details of my day

the mountains and oceans

the quirks, heartaches and achievements

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Aged romanticism

The relationship I know, one day, I will live in

The everything

I’ve read about, watched and believed all my life

That is what I want/will/have

What I think about, endlessly,

is the culture of personal sufficiency

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I am staring out my window

into the black dreamlike calm of the ocean

the hush of the whitewater massaging my nerves.

Joy

The presence of someone I have nothing but an impulse about

Sorrow

The reminder that her intentions are on a stranger half a world away

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Ghost drifters

Wind sweepers

Dream floaters

Space gliders

Flying dancers

Ocular faeries

Shiloh’s silhouettes

Visual silence

The warriors of the rings

The seducers of the sunset

af

(written with pen in little notebook)

What is it that I do?

What purpose do I serve by

extracting words from my mind and

laying them,

sometimes intentionally, sometimes carelessly,

in notebook after book for my own therapy?

A house exists, surgery leaves a healing scar,

but do I matter when I dedicate every day of my life

to writing my ideas for a very small few to read?

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vulnerability

a weakness i wanted to share with you

i do not go far enough

i do not even push that much

when i create

i am always safe

there are words that i don’t dare put together

dances that i never take up a level

then up a level

then up a level

i have never dedicated my life to the studio

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