Carry me up. Up. Like autumn leaves in the sky.

My art brings me back to life.

A poet lives in exile, but i breath in songs.


I feel uplifted when i'm on my feet,

Reading my poems at a steady beat

Squirming under the light’s heat

Heart speeding rapidly.


Uplifted, i am.

Spilling my contents

I am ill content

But i am happy.


I’d rather write beauty in sand

Than blasphemy in stone.

My best works are the ones left unknown


The starving artist has plenty food

The starving artist has a heart impossible to satisfied.

Easy to excite and inspire.

I am at ease when i write.


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