Do as you please,

Image result for realm of fantasy

It is burning me,

how these days I just cannot seem pen down and weave,

fairy-tales and stories,

from a web so tangled and paper creased,

call it brain freeze,

temporarily blocked I cannot receive,

inspired reason to vent and release,

energy in motion flowing like rivers run deep,

under skin, we grieve,

I watch on as lost bodies retreat,

back in to their seats,

unable to believe,

that we can always choose to break free and just do as we fucking please.



Wake up

Image result for wake up art

I am past the days of delusions,

excuses, backed up with fairly good reasons,

throwing force-fields at enemies,

doubts fail to cloud my mind this time around.

No more settling for less,

no more lack of self respect,

like Neptune weaves a fate,

shaped by tendencies to escape

from which one day we’ll be forced to awake.

The realm of fantasy,

an alternate reality,

holds us back,

when real life seems to lack,

but clear space inside your brain,

and let go of the chain,

of conditioned thoughts,

lies you may have bought,

Awakening to who you really are,

and following your heart

slaying the dragon,

and steering clear of the bandwagon,

breeding sheep,

who were once in deep,

a planet of amnesia, still asleep,

eyes opening from slumber as we keep,

persistently planting seeds

intuition is the key out,

and this time there is no turning around.




Image result for purple and blue art

Art speaks to me,

Colours bring to life what’s beyond the grey sea,

as tides rush in with the breeze,

on the shore of a land troubled and torn,

so as the pendulum swings,

like an anagram for what’s within,

we build up our tanks with fuel,

creating a crown of jewels,

coloured in various shades and hues,

ranging from royal purple to blue,

but don’t get confused,

beyond the lies and abuse,

hatred infused,

it must be said,

that we may now be ten steps ahead

but getting to the core,

this place so adored,

was nothing short of a war,



Too complex

It is too complex,

How genetic tapestry weaves it’s web,

Sowing the seeds for the flower bed,

or are they roses made of thorns?

prickling the thin papery skin of every individual born,

raised in castles built and guarded by swords,

metaphorically speaking of course,

the power of words,

So as we enter the tempest,

and fall face first into crevices,

Swept under the rug of the naked eye,

hooded and blind,

Still we rise,

Whether the pitfalls have been recognised,

is not a promise we may well have been compromised,

thrown to the wolves and left out in the cold to die,

I can only say so much and that is why,

in this storyline anything can pass us by,




Echoes reverberate,

distinctly metallic across this landscape,

in the middle there is a portal designed for us to forget,


save me from those that know not yet,

that they are in fact already dead,

fighting the dual,


pulling wool did not work,

over eyes, that burn under tricks of the light,

the space between all matter

lined with scaly patterns,

rings around Saturn,

warning bells,

crimson red,

and well fed,

parasites to a host,

amber, yellow,

subtle glow

decaying dust roads,

paving paths lined with gold,

spinning, nine-folds,

who can feel the worst?

Be the first,

to dry out with thirst,

amnesia settles in,

as sedatives win,

over the host,

the one that suffered the most.

No charge will be given,

unheard of and unwritten,



old news, ten of swords,

marking the end,


no more echoes no more repeats,


I’m bored,

fighting to be restored,

cutting cords,







Wild Winters,

Image result for art winter

Sleeping away sickness,

as songs stream through wild winters,

Composed by all these singers,

leaving behind a trail of fingers,

atop the grand piano

white, orange, gold,

don’t believe everything that you’re told.

the stream flows both ways,

water murky and grey, like a painting of a rainy day,

and as ships pass through the shore,

just like that the calm is restored.