Lately streams of rhythm have been
flowing freely from freedom pipes,
A beautiful mind sinking in dark ink
Stitched to the fabric of a half lived life.
Priceless gems stained with a hidden truth
Placed under a boulder
That stretches from rivers to oceans,
And small senic routes to boulevards.
Dreaming and drowning in past aggressive nostalgia.
Searching in a new form other than
Channel surfing; surfacing from a
Self conscious intellect that was once suppressed.
Afraid to speak,
And maybe these paintings on my wall
Actually came to life, maybe I’ve been hiding them from a world without color