What Lies Within Us AllFound bestrewn 'cross th'frigid iceOf Winter's bitter, freezing blight,The remnants of a Hope in flightLie scattered, slowly fading;Like a fire once it burned,Stopped by none, like magma churned--Heated by an inward yearningFor a world better far.Still, the Fates muse silently..The choice: To cut or leave the stringTo see what Hope does, left to beAn independent agent?A gust of frost-chilled wind stabs past;It seems for Hope to be the lastFoul, frozen breath--in final gaspA hiss is almost heard--Alas!!A cackle of delight rings high;The Fates exchange their ancient eyeTo see the great and wond'rous sightOf human Hope's roaring defiance.Still not understood by men,Nor for years to come will've ever been--Man's heart and will time and againIn worst of worst shall learn to burstAnd burn e'er brighter in the end.
FreedomBe thy mind free? Or bindest thou it with fetters which be heavy with the ideas of men and burdened conscience? Hast thou knowledge of true liberty and that joy which she doth so sweetly carry into the soul that seeketh in earnest?Arise, and taste the breeze of a new day! May fresh be in thy nostrils the aroma of sunlight and pleasant be the song of birds in flight as the sun in splendour doth sleepily emerge from his slumber.Exchange not thy hold upon thy dreams for that of what the world may without wisdom christen 'practical' and 'real.' In folly she glances with scorn upon what the unbound pursue. She gropes in blindness, and stumbles in her way, even as she raises her voice to mock and degrade. Fall she shall--be not fooled by her present strength, for it is but transient and fleeting, and soon shall be cut off by things eternal and fearless.Want not, nor fear. Persist steady in thy course; serve He who gave you life and grants you dreams, and tho demons and men seek to strike
Art By DefinitionI've a philosophy,As any muse--The powers of artMay be used or abused.I believe the world can beA better place--obscenityNeed not be a tool to freeThe human mind from binding things.The human body may be art,But whose? And who are we?The copyright's God's--to defile in partOr in whole's just as bad, to me.Life's not for "living it up" or for moping;Life's not for giving away to the waste.Life's for learning what matters, what doesn't;Life's for o'ercoming the carnal for chaste.Art is an infinite spectrum of color,Defined by some rather alternativelyThan others might go to the lengths to discover,But think--what's opinion? What's truth? Who's to say?