I think of galaxies and of their beaming lights, and I write.
I think of the rain pouring on my face, and of the winds slashing upon leaves, and I write.
I think of dew blurring the window glass of my bedroom, and I write.
I think of the sounds of water streams and of the songs of birds on a Sunday morning, and I write.
I think of the green grass of the rainy seasons, and of its withered hues when the sun fiercely lights up the summer, and I write.
I think of a stranger locking me up in a filthy basement, and I write.
I think of all these faces, some formless, some of alien traits, living lives of many, and I write.
I think of milk, water-falling from my breast, and I write.
I think of the seed of life, erupting from a straightened obelisk, and I write.
I think of dimensions and of world to be, and I write.
I write my heart away, with a wandering soul left at bay.
And when these weapons that I’ve never touch, dwells into the depth of my mind, with flowering ivies blossoming their way, I write.
And when lights strangle all darkness in the strange land of my imagination, I write.
I write of the poetry and of the peace I would love gifting to the world, to the universe, to you, and to me.
I think that inspiration is everywhere, suffice that you look deeply, gently bringing your attention to the aesthetic form of things, where even the essence of what our vocab describes as worst and repulsive are beautiful in their own way. So, I do hope that you open your eyes, as to let your mind gaze at the primary essence of things, for you to think, and to write.