Smoked just a bit to see if I can get my mind to relax. Self-hatred always comes knocking when I feel happiest… I wonder if I will ever lose and just give up. Friend says “no you will never lose”. Perhaps I grieve too early and tears come too easily. Is it dangerous to think of my failures as part of the art? Are these elusive dreams just lies I tell myself? Hopeless and empty. Is it pathetic to have my faith in poetry? Can it save my sanity…is there meaning? Pretty thoughts, ugly thoughts, pretty ugly thoughts…
pilgrimage
a personal piece of the universe
a privacy within the openness
a shyness growing more outrageous
a destination in every step,
new worlds in every half
hideous are the weathers
but it gives strength to the twigs of the blossoms
to hold worship the delicate blooms
art is a pilgrimage
to flame a raging courage
to break ego, this wretched cage
reminisce but never look back,
all we have to do is walk
