I wonder if you ever rob me of my imagination,
How much of a writer would I become?

Heal me, may you?
Of all the opaque moons that had failed
to shine within me;
Of all the caged birds that sung
of despair and misery.

Color me, will you?
With the shades of pink and
the hues of everlasting green;
color me transparent like water
running free in streams.

Free me -
of the winds of December
and the coldest stones;
of the pale of seasons -
The cliches of the unknown.


And kill me so that I may live
naked of all the lessons,
until you come crawling in
once and for all.




(I suck with endings lately..)

Why would you see me in black and white if you're so colorful to me?

And if together we fall,
how many would rise again,
when divided?
How many would gather the pieces
shattered on the roads?
The untrodden and forgotten
within the winds of struggle.

How many words would fade,
unsaid and buried within,
just to drink the toast of
disturbed liberty?

And how many would dream,
when thousands lay insomniac?

Just how many?