Bend the Angel’s will. Corrupt her pure heart. Steal her divinity for your creation. Oh my dear old thing; unholy perfection is at your fingertips.
Protect your processes. Nurture your weakness. Curb your strength. For once life is not absolute truth; subtlety is awakening.
God is infinite. Your lifetime is not. Nor are all words ever written. Unlearn everything you know; virtue shall lead you further than knowledge.
Everything came from nothing. The nameless empty. The unperishing void. Not bleak nor sad; for nothing is in everything.
Create something beautiful. Crude but complex. Naive but fully layered. Give your all; save the world. Go forth.
Tries to see good in the negative.
Whilst experiencing difficulty in the positive.
Music, painting, drawing, writing, reading.
Sport, running, walking, playing, taking part.
Often anxious. Rarely judgemental.
Sometimes happy. Sometimes sad.
Tries my best. Likes a rest.
This is me. Down to a T.
Sitting down. Drinking tea.
Fear is a cruel imposter, a charlatan, a crook of the mind.
A false reaction or part of a disingenuous conversation is a recipe for a circle of tiredness.
Cookery is playing with fire unless you have a prescription for success.
Sour is a taste that is needed to feel sweet.
Mental dexterity is needed. Requirements move the mind.
Numbers can help us understand the physical world around us.
Two people trapped in love is the best and the worst.
Keep extremes conceptual. Nothing is as it seems.
Emptiness is invaluable but so is some other stuff.
What I am worth and to who does it matter?
She wants someone close, to hold, to love, to have.
Though she lives like a ghost, no one knows her name.
Wants a normal life but life won’t bend for her.
Feeling like a mess because her dreams aren’t coming true.
She looked in a book for words to help her out.
The book said:
“Ȝeue þi cunte to cunnig and craue affetir wedding.”
She knew what she must do, just felt lost and incapable.
So she stopped to love herself, to grow, to learn, to gain.
So did she ever change? Well, nobody did know.
She’s still wandering the town, through rain, through hail, through snow.
My biggest delusion also felt the most real.
Grief is the bite of the wind on your cheek. Life is the brace of air against your face and your hair standing on end.
Intertwined like two strands, they stood at the bus stop hand in hand. A familiar memory stood next to you is still there years after you saw them last. Look after your mind. Reign in fear and hate because you might be alone at the bus stop one day.
The breath goes in and out. Your breath becomes someone else’s whether you are on your own or not. Keep breathing, that’s what living is.
The things of the world hold sway over us all.
To be free from this influence is an illusion.
To be aware of it is the path.
Objects, feelings, and creatures are all included.
You are part, a mixture, not all this or that.
Position your intent well, this will point things to the path.
Relative to extremes, no absolutes are real.
Happening and moving in flux.
Change is the route the path takes.
There is a place of nowhere. A realm within everything.
Where your creation exists peacefully in balance.
This is the where the path leads.
NONSENSE, I’M OVERTHINKING. EVERYTHING IS TOO MUCH. NOTHING EVER GOES RIGHT. ABSOLUTE DOOM PERSISTS. Or does it?
A trickle, a pore.
Sat together and bored.
Nervous energy and a hot sun ray.
Exasperated tension that lasts all day.
Droplets form in the same place, no less.
Expending nothing still a sticky mess.
Thunder brews high above my head.
Atmosphere darkens and thickens to lead.
Excitement builds inside and out.
A response so primal it sounds like a shout.
A roar in the sky with light and a boom.
Synchronised with a release pent up in the room.
Pilchard Paul washes his wellies in the rushing river.
The skies sadden as the wintery wind keeps coming.
The sodden soil is certainly saturated this stormy stroll.
The loud lion roars raucously as the gloomy grey clouds close in.
A clap and a crack as frightening fracturous light lands on the loam.
Lion licks his colossal coat, wringing wet from the ridiculous rain.
Suclulent scent sniffed by the Lion’s lust for fantastic food.
Pilchard Paul runs and rushes toward the car on the corner.
Crafty clever cogs Lion lives not far the pride in from the periphery.
Low lionesses spring sporadically seemingly out of nowhere now.
RIP Pilchard Paul. Fishermen. Father of 2 bonny boys. Tim and Todd.
Sorry yes. That’s ok. I just walked in a tree because I was looking away. Sorry. Errrr. Where was I? Oh yes I’ve got to walk around the tree. Errr yes. Ok. Oh no sorry I got a text, one moment. Oh sorry tree again, I was looking at my phone. Oh the bus is here. Oh sorry driver I don’t have change will a note be ok. Oh wait.. errr. A £20 is my lowest. Sorry. Oh blimey it’s a busy bus isn’t it. I’ll have to stand up. Maybe I should just squeeeeeeeze past some of these people. Sorry. Oh I’m not getting off for a while and these people might be getting off sooner. I’ll squeeeze past another oh sorry. Errr ever so sorry are you getting off now? Sorry I’ll move out of the way so you can get out. Ah. At least there’s a free chair to sit on. Oh sorry my knee just touched your knee I’ll try and close my legs so I take up less room and sit on the outside of the seat. Sorry. Oh sorry you want to get past. I’ll swing my legs back around. Oh sorry you’re getting up, is it your stop? I better let you out. Ah at least I’ve got a window seat. Oh you’re sitting down next to me sorry I’ll tuck my legs in. Sorry, your bag is touching my legs. Ah it is my stop, can you press the bell for me please? Sorry. Ah excuse me you’re still standing, can I squeeeze past? Uh. Sorry. Right. Sorry driver, I mean thank you. Sorry.