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#Artist

Science and faith are the two trees in the tiny artist's path as he wanders trudging along his burden of illusion. But when he surrenders to the strength of his soul, his illusion becomes the art as the salvation crumbling all the pillars of the mortal world.

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#Poetry

As the naughty toddler with a destiny to set the mankind free; your every verse is a God. Let it unshackle the reader that kneels before it.

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Ah! The way you blush tonight
As my palms lovingly cup your cheeks
Facing each other entirely

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I love you not as a habit or an addiction, not as a desire or a need. I love you not as a prayer or a poem, not as a choice or a circumstance. I love you not as a memory or a monument, not as a destiny or a dream. I just love you like an involuntary breath. For, Love is.

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On naughty nights flirted with finesse
She's coy trembling moist in exhilaration
But on these deserted new moon nights
When bound in bed by barren dreams
Burning dry with restless desire
She slips into the trickling shower
To be caressed by steamy streams
Her squeals drowned in the tapping drops
And shivers weaving ripples in the pool
She weeps a climatic tear of surrender
To the secret vice that sets her free

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Lust

Don't dismiss lust, just yet.
It's the literature of love,
The poetry of our memories.

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Freedom

You're dependent upon the breeze.
So art thou, by gravity on the ground.
The drop & the feather spilt grease
So who is free; who is bound?
The feather bragged about its company
Stars in the sky, and the silver moon
The drop prided in its own crowd in glee
Diamonds, and flowers to swoon
The river's odyssey is a cathartic course
In quest of it's final home
While the bird every dawn soars
For survival in its own dome
Both are thence free; both are then bound
Love's such ride: a merry-go-round

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An insomniac poet finally dreams.

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Victim


Victimhood is as much the colossal inhumanity of an oppressor as the unconscious submission to a self-confided vulnerability

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