The river does not flow in polluted, we manage that. The river does not dry up, we block it. If we want to allow it its freedom, we have to allow our ideational lives to be let loose, to stream, letting anything come, initially censoring nothing. That is creative life. It is made up of divine paradox. To create one must be willing to be stone stupid, to sit upon a throne on top of a jackass and spill rubies from one’s mouth. Then the river will flow, then we can stand in the stream of it raining down.
The trees are my love,
The wilderness is my heart.
The body of yours is my poetry,
Your soul is my only art.
I’ve got the storm due to my anger
My tears contain the pain,
On top of the mountains, I scream
Until it gets inside my vein.
The surrounding and these sight
I always do what is right,
Waking up with the Sun’s light
Sleeping with my “‘Thin Moon’ at night.
The unknown is my power
My anxiety is my fear,
Humans are complete disaster
‘Paper is better than people’
Stop using people for their kindness
Their love is running out,
One can be the reason for all the scars,
I wonder, can we ever feel them screaming this loud?
My heart is the wilderness,
There’s a lot in it to fill and feel,
At times I question my own existence
Can this be really surreal?
You don’t need to weep, no need to cry
Roar like a thunder, and spread fire.
I’m here to make you remind you,
You’ll get more than what you ever desire.
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