I used to look at my hands in wonder The intricacies of life made me ponder Beauty created by a power so great Not a statistic, but I know my place My hands will speak out on that day I fear for I know what they shall say Innocent beginnings with feeble mind Slowly straying with time comes crime Misusing the gift as if it’s mine at all Do I help them up or let them fall? The rope I clutch not hard enough Burning coal in hand, hot to touch Let alone grasp, for release – never Hands shackled to be free forever.

The rose now finished, void of life petals outside hard, not soft and bright water is murky, like vision clouded as the petals fall off, I am astounded to find life, moisture under layers grey outer shell penetrates to a brighter day aroma is pleasant, stem stands proud perchance sunlight might be found and growth again from ground solid Resurrection to reality rose departed seeds scattered in the wind they blow Discover the world on journeys undergo Cycle continues, forgotten pasts clear Sun rises in the west, the day is here.

What is the purpose of this conversation You ask that question yet refuse others stop me when I speak about true creation why are you scared of the truth and cover it with these blind masks of deceit and lies must I be so selfish that it has to benefit me or perhaps I enjoy irritating you – inside You know the truth yet refuse to see so I remind you constantly no guarantee of tomorrow, so often mentioned yet ignored encourage me to write – then read my flaws.

Tears stop flowing but face still wet heart soft but firm, not a dripping mess Easy to be negative, me against the world Easier to be positive, to forget the stolen pearl constantly strive for balance of fear and hope the middle path of justice and peace we promote to live by our word is increasingly difficult burden grows with knowledge, deliver physical results not necessarily measurable – but spiritual carrying the world on your shoulders takes being bolder not to crack under the pressure, act a lot older Inspired by those who carry smiles on their faces good character greater than books...

I ask myself, what am I doing with my life? No, don’t worry, I’m not going to end it foolish to think one can escape by the knife dotted lines of ink where the pen hits they join together to make words so strong sticks and stones break bones, but words Words are deadly. Kill, maim and harm psychologically lie there dying on the curb clutch my heart, those words, those words hit so deep by painful uttering, mutterings under my breath cursing and hurting regretting using my tongue so freely now it will land me in hell if I don’t stop, how could I possibly speak so ill to my mother she struggled...

Peer through my curtain up at the dark sky expecting stars but only clouds up high It’s hard to sleep as the blackness swallows lying awake wondering if I’ll see tomorrow Why remember death, when life is here? seems my answer falls on truly deaf ears much easier to avoid as ‘tragic incidents’ every soul will taste it – coincidence? this is tiring, write about something else perhaps I’ll brag about the ultimate wealth or fast cars, jewellery and lots of women This is how to live, I’m winning I’m winning! BAM. “Boys life cut short in unfortunate accident” What have I done, is...

This is dedicated to you. Rose picked and given as gift vase tall occupied by bud, on twig days go by and changes take place growth, life, a smile on my face petals of red so deep and powerful living off water and light, impossible! day into night, eyes no longer so bright red begins to fade, danger and plight yet time continues as rose does die body left to nature, spirit to the sky We are but roses I tell you no lies given, as gifts, if only we realised life is a test, to succeed we must fear God, and place in Him our trust from our deep vases one day a release remember, your body, is truly on...

Where was the warning that life was so deep? even on the TV screen the future looks bleak. experience is necessary to relate to my musings perhaps journey to lands where people are losing life – innocence is but an excuse to remain conditions so poor that slavery looks humane we hide behind the excuses so many, weak as if we are not guilty for thousands do weep so long as they are not british or american we say nothing you can do to stop their passing away serving the ‘nation’ involves murder it seems as the death of one soldier justifies the means to remain as oppressors for as long as it...