on admiration + inspiration.

mileage report on hold.
as inspiration surges.
and fingers begin process of typing
head feels full but blank
and you admire the music
and it enters
you.
and it makes your fingers, dance...
over a keyboard
in a room too crowded
its a (silent) escape
silent?
only because the body remains motionless...
is there a connection here?
are you "glocalized"?
who do you write for?
who do your fingers dance for?
does your inspiration require admiration?
whose repertoire are you archiving - who is your audience?

dance.
sing.
paint.
and colour my world.

i miss painting.

invisible

she wears hearts on her stockings
and he tells her she can never be invisible
because all he sees is her pretty face
and sometimes the shape and colour
of her stockings

and so maybe?
she is here for his enjoyment
implementing ideas
and listening when he needs her

and so maybe?
he does not realize
that sometimes she is actually invisible
a pretty face within the crowd.

finally... could this be

or would it be a waste? even if i knew my fate?

should i give up?

or should i just keep chasing pavements?



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uBmwdlBFs1s&feature=relmfu

audrie thinks out loud.

in an era of text messages
in a time of laptops
our reflections are never alone. but always silent. always lonely.
you are faceless, friends.
and so quiet.
no whispered encouragements
the recordings of a life
foretold
on a backlit screen.

I value love.
she said.
i yearn for that moment. to fall. she said
and i looked at her. confused.
how sadistic.
i thought.
and at that moment. i saw her pain. i saw her needs. i saw her ugly, her beauty.
her life for rent. her love for free. furniture in the apartment called "her".

is it me that needs to be rearranged?

of granite&wine.

The music gives me flashbacks of memories that never existed:
I remember the future; that never was.
I created you: with the gift of sand from the god's homeland ad a kiss, from Eternity.

Granite

The music gives me the words I need: unspoken.
I shaped you: invisible as air, as valuable, painful, appreciated as oxygen for an asthmatic.
Our conversations lie, the only alibi to their existence: the moon.
Voices that never existed in the dance between trebles and clefs

The music tells the melancholy of fairytales dreamt,
You become a fragment of my imagination, created, sketched, painted and finally sung.
The idea of you as absurd as a warm February in this city of crying imprudents,

Sade, zaki, esthero, lani hall,the ladies that accompany my lunacy:
And this is why I cannot blame you.
The bread that has molded on the day of your dire hunger cannot hold the blame for its impotence:
Even though once upon a time it could have, would have, savedyou....

It is simply past its time