Your words on the screen are my color palette I dip my brush into your words and paint youOn the sky, on the ceiling, on the snow; on the tabletOf things eternal : love truth beauty happiness

Your breaking point will be a bloody refuge, not a clean slate.

Poetry is breathing words that gives a reader pause.

All shadows of clouds the sun cannot hide like the moon cannot stop oceanic tide;but a hidden star can still be smiling at night's black spell on darkness, beguiling

The Throes of Poetry - Hymns formed from groans of acquaintance, its rhythm weaving between tranquility, compassions, and peril - like bare feet stomping on broken glass - bleeds, recoils, then steps again.

I am a lover of words and tragically beautiful things, poor timing and longing, and all things with soul, and I wonder if that means I am entirely broken, or if those are the things that have been keeping me whole.

Night after night on starry wingsNight lovers soared so highMiles apart, across the oceansTheir love forgot to sighIn heavenly flight’s timelessnessThat highest height treasuredInto the deepest of all bluesTheir depth of love measured.From the poem 'The Ballad of Night Lovers

Let's fall in love and screw up our lives even more?

Death is buried there into death Hunger strikes on its own last breathNo spine to shiver, no heart talks At life’s craving poverty mocksFrom the poem 'Exhumation

Written soul is called poetry

Every known thing used to be unknownAnd every rock could become a stone Someday nature will have to atone When soul sees dead flesh leaving the bone

If you can't be the poet, be the poem.

Perfection"Every oak will lose a leaf to the wind.Every star-thistle has a thorn.Every flower has a blemish.Every wave washes back upon itself.Every ocean embraces a storm.Every raindrop falls with precision.Every slithering snail leaves its silver trail.Every butterfly flies until its wings are torn.Every tree-frog is obligated to sing.Every sound has an echo in the canyon.Every pine drops its needles to the forest floor.Creation's whispered breath at dusk comeswith a frost and leaves within dawn's faint mist,for all of existence remains perfect, adorned,with a dead sparrow on the ground.(Poem titled : 'Perfection' by R.H.Peat)

I am all things, I am not your words. I am defined by me.

If I die today, will you remember me tomorrow?The love I'm leaving behind, will you care to borrow? From a snake-shed-skin or from the sky unknownIn all living and the dead I'll dwell to groan

...come lie beside me again and understand - the others can show by actions, but I alone will immortalize you in words...

Give me one more night to taste the darkWhen wolves imitate a lone dog's bark Let those secrets remain unspoken Fallen angel's heart now lover's token Light grows dim burying riddle’s death Just breathe to free your one last breath

You bothered yourself and changed the season. I was left behind with your awful sounds.

..snow gently settles like dust in a shaft - for one moment there is no one else - only the wind like the hiss of an ice skate ...

A poem can't free us from the struggle for existence, but it can uncover desires and appetites buried under the accumulating emergencies of our lives, the fabricated wants and needs we have had urged on us, have accepted as our own. It's not a philosophical or psychological blueprint; it's an instrument for embodied experience.

beware women grownoldwho were neveranything butyoung

I always felt it wouldpass.I listened to the charges against meknowing some of them to be truebut certainly notimportant enoughto become the target ofviolence, envy,vengeance.I thought it would surelypass.

A rain like melting pillows…a rain so beautifulI could neverhave let go ofif not certainthat someday...it would find its wayinto my poem.

Dear Lover...you are the only man, who never hurt me, but broke my heart.

Music helps to forgetThis forsaken tomb,That is my abodeCellars downFar belowUnder the ground, ...

I climb the door instead of a treeJust to crawl with myself walking freeWhat if I’m a lizard beneath my skinChanging my colours of the human I’ve been

Poetry is –raw feelings as sunny summer,fiery turmoil as vibrant autumn,daunting revelation as stormy winter,intrepid hope as blooming spring.

The tongues of hell are dull.

The movementOf the body isWhere poetryBegins

A poetess is a collection of unfinished thoughts. She is a tormented phantom, a harbinger of life and death. Those who peer deep inside her catacombs will learn that even madness is a virtue.

When the hatred stops will the love begin? When there is no more greed will there then be peace?