something
it was always the purple light that caught her eyes.
this was some thing she noticed most often after a down poor.
the canvas always starts out blank .
it is filled with color.
lines ,shapes, and there is always a point of question. while standing back and observing what your hand has created.
but today the cats will pull vines from the canvas that will envelop , entangle, and fill the whole room, casting once again a purple glow.
the stringed instrument, the silent voices, the keys of the piano, all seem to stare at me today. it is quiet. the only activity is in my head. me fingers are lost.
it is with a sinking heart that i except in pending defeat. though i can except. it never gets any easier.
we are born alone we die alone, the thoughts and feeling we can only express to one another, not share.
we connect, and then disconnect. like a blinking modem.
we are more then feathers on the wind, we have hands and feet, and voices. but the wind will be strong when it wills to be strong. we can not rise above. we are fragile, soft bodied, soft spirited creatures. we have no conviction. we have time. we have actions and we have hearts to carry our dreams. we Can realize our dreams, but we can't always, just get over ourselves to do it. we are the greatest barricade to are own ambitions.
we suffer silently. some of us cry, some of us explode, some of us are silent some of us try to make logic of it all.
the canvas is blank.
our hearts are open.
this was some thing she noticed most often after a down poor.
the canvas always starts out blank .
it is filled with color.
lines ,shapes, and there is always a point of question. while standing back and observing what your hand has created.
but today the cats will pull vines from the canvas that will envelop , entangle, and fill the whole room, casting once again a purple glow.
the stringed instrument, the silent voices, the keys of the piano, all seem to stare at me today. it is quiet. the only activity is in my head. me fingers are lost.
it is with a sinking heart that i except in pending defeat. though i can except. it never gets any easier.
we are born alone we die alone, the thoughts and feeling we can only express to one another, not share.
we connect, and then disconnect. like a blinking modem.
we are more then feathers on the wind, we have hands and feet, and voices. but the wind will be strong when it wills to be strong. we can not rise above. we are fragile, soft bodied, soft spirited creatures. we have no conviction. we have time. we have actions and we have hearts to carry our dreams. we Can realize our dreams, but we can't always, just get over ourselves to do it. we are the greatest barricade to are own ambitions.
we suffer silently. some of us cry, some of us explode, some of us are silent some of us try to make logic of it all.
the canvas is blank.
our hearts are open.