beats

gentle peace and water still
sun shine flowing through the cracks,
i hear the bird chirp and a child laugh
as i wander down the path

my heart at rest, and my mind is still
a concious slumber, without wake,
drifting into the sky with a feeling of good
and settling down again

the wind blows gently as i roam through the woods,
squirrels gather to discuss the breeze,
brighter colours than ever painted
maybe the problem is the brush,

or maybe the artist is far to confined
to a reality with lines and numbers
painting with knowledge, not with art
an art we've grown to know

this art has been subjected to protocol
and transformed into life
and the brushless artist is given no due
for what he began himself.

those who wield the mighty brush paint over the maiden stoke
and change what it has said
melding to their will and strucken down

but a pocket appears,
hidden in day,
caught off guard and opens your mind
you heart or soul, whatever you name it
it is given a beam of pure daylight in the night

that won't ever quite go out
without a fight
of calm

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Herb Ninja

Great poem, I lost you near the end... then again i'm baked.

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"Truth is treason in an empire of lies." -Ron Paul

twisty

yup ditto. Really liked it till verse 6 then i lost you. I like the last verse an oxymoron doesnt make sense but hell the most beautiful things rarely do, that flows nicely.

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smile till your ears wrap so far around your head they meet