Poetry from a mended heart

It was that age, poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know , i dont know where it came from, i don't know how or when.  They were not voices, they were not words nor silence. ( Because poetry isn't just seen or heard) From the street i was summoned, From branches of night among violent fires There i was without a face and it touched me. I felt the sound of a flute and swirling colors, and something in my soul. Deciphering that fire, I wrote the first faint line, pure no sense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing. Suddenly, I felt myself of a pure part of abyss. I wheeled with the stars. My poetry isn't just words you read or you hear, It's a feeling you get in your chest, A chill that runs through your body, A knife that slices your soul. And if you can hear your soul calling out,                                                   ...

Brushes and paints can do alot of pictures, Images inside his head that was once captured, it can speak for a million of smiles. It can reveal is thousands of lives. His art was the hide and seek between his soul's illumining smiles and his heart's streaming tears.  His art had a smile like the one of Mona lisa curved like the waxing moon above the sea.  And when he painted me on the wall, i stood tall as he silently moved his brush without much fuss.                           I realized that, Art is like the face of Earth's beauty, the heart of heaven's divinity.

Depression is like a tidal wave pulling you further in You don't feel up to facing anyone or anything.                                       Speak out, Depression is a huge emphasis on feeling sad and low. It leaves you lost and drops you into a never ending black hole.                                                              Speak out, Depression makes you feel stupid, Depression makes you feel hopeless.        But,                    I stand here as a friend, My compassionate heart is yours to lend, Merely to give you inspiration and redeem you of your  depression.                       ...

He walked in the forest of her mind( he saw the real ephemeral beauty), He chased butterflies in her head, He lived in the cottage of her heart( he found peace there), He danced the rhythm of her music.                          She could write about him late night, About how he tasted the kiss of her lips, About how he flows in her body, About how he was the dream to her dreams. And she wondered if her dreams were vivid or not.                                                        She was a poet who fell inlove.