These are the letters of my life
Wretched and nude, wandering and alone
Nobody will open their seal of discoveries
Only I know the contents of my cells
That begged for purity in such a polluted corrupt world
* * *
Hardly even I could find a speck of kindness
In the abyss that separated us here
Only for instance, the smiles of others to each other
Were the letters ever answered?
I don’t remember, I am no longer me, no longer the writer
* * *
I only hope for little things now
For nourishment, and survival and sanctuary
But even these things, I don’t find so easily
Not friends, lovers or helpfulness along the way
I’m vilified by the same people I seek to help
* * *
Ready to feel the doom from my own hands, like is my custom
The unanswered letters gather up in me
Like memories of reaching out for nobody
The universe didn’t hear my call, my acts were too small
* * *
One day I shall reply to myself, glad and grateful
Though I once thought that day was near, now I am unsure
The world collapses upon me like speckled seasons
I am an endangered species to myself
* * *
I long for things I have never found
I have no proof they exist, in me or in others
There is no glimmer of honesty honest enough for me
No spiritual fire that washes me clean once again
* * *
Only the regret of living, only the guilt of wanting
Only the desires that lead yet to more desires
There are no great cities left for me
But the landscapes seem heavy with time
* * *
I am joyous for simple things, because
There’s nothing left of the illusions we used to hold
Those treasures like the burning sun on youthful skin
It’s gone now, as I rediscover myself alone.
Tag Archives: lyrics
City Limits
It has been some time since
I had been inspired, with dimples
And the juices of hope lit on fire
Like a karosine of kaleidoscopes
Rose petals stuck between my lips
It’s torture to live in the pen
When the heart forgets what it is to live
It has been long, Hae.mi, between sunsets
In the city of so much french-this-and-that
I may not discover love at the city’s limits
For I live a hermit in my own airy castles
I’ve got to write, like an unbearable bribery of hope
Where I am a thief, and you are the woman I most desire
Where foreign loans are paid in poems
Poems to the lost souls and coveted mothers
Hae.mi, it has been quiet a while
Since I was a third thief, by writing and by touch
The slipper dress of a fleeting caress
A see-through moment in shared secrecy
Where passion stalks on the invisible up and up.
But With a Fraction of the Love
I’ve felt my life
In the murmur of a bee
And felt all my tears
In the eminence of a nest
And the daffodils blew color
Covert as April, or candid as May
I took my time to age and my time
Was plenty, in the solitude
Of antiquity, forgetting for answering
Only questions, guided me
At the breaking of the day
Where golden drops spawned
Longer looks and deeper searching
All for something immaterial
There is a flower which no longer blooms
It’s in my heart or should I say, it was
It’s gentle romance led me on
In the chivalry of my subjective warmth
Where I was not alone, nor humming birds left
The measures of days were not my smiles
My splendour was meagre, my heart
Was the moistness of oxygen
In your lungs, the breath that kept you sane
When life was a tyranny of choice until
There was none left and freedom hung
Like a low hanging fruit, of what our lives had become.
The Last Offering
I come, to the void of myself often
It is the soul of my solitude
It is where all the curtains are drawn
And I am in my own privacy, in touch
With something of the divine
I go there like an escape from the outside world
It is my heart of subjectivity
And I do not find it at all terrifying
It’s a splendour to own such a place
A piece of art, an order of nature
The soul built by spiritual suffering
A palace of mysticism who could understand?
What to an artist is their dream
To the cruel world how futile and juvenile
But we all require a soul to function
* * *
A spirit to push us through those terrible nights
Where the world is truly against us
And we are abandoned by friendship, love, profit
How many days of my life have I slept there
Alone, for that is the self-indulgence of
Risking and of striving illicitly, stubbornly
Against the peer pressure of such a conforming world
That cares for profit, reproduction, tradition
Perhaps we are not all made for that, I do not know?
But friends do leave and a dull pragmatism does
Set in, like the idea of responsibility for ordinary things
As when mates leave us for our idealism
I would have imagined it would be a virtue
But what if in all of this, the world is wrong?
And my soul is right, and I am doing what
I was meant to do all along, how shall I forgive myself then
For squandering my talent in subjectivity
And loving my own doom through it all
* * *
There is no room in this world for poets
So perhaps we shall do it as if in secret revolt
The revolution is always born inside
I need no solace from existence, only
My divine food, my guise of dream, my birthright
Of sacred psychology, that is why I write
It’s not a delusion nor in glowing pink afternoons
A mistake I made in being who I chose to be
It’s my exercise in the cosmos and empathy
It’s my last belonging to simplicity
It’s me mimicking all I thought was beautiful
To be grateful for a moment, together
With silence, whiteness, bareness, authentic authority.
Dying into Descendents
Artist is Naomi, Montreal. http://naomipaints.com/gallery/mosaics/
Dying into Descendents
Someday, somewhere, in this life
You’ll find yourself hungry
For a freedom from the necessity
Of hope or despair
To be an animal is not
The only way of being
Everything carries you to her
The evolution of your mind
How your soul aches to be
Something else, better
A future of instant information
With senses as great as galaxies
And cells and nodes like planets
And continents, that’s how
The future will feel like
Until then, enjoy your biology
Those small desires and human monotony
You won’ get to keep what you have
Not even who you once were
So borrow and blend until
You and I meet again
As the hymns that fill the worlds
As the lights that are born from stars.
Mother’s D a y
Mother’s D a y
Thank you for bringing me
Into the world, Mother
My soul was built upon your love
My spirit blessed by your protection
I trust the world because of you
And claim special joys
For my descendants because
You loved being a Mother
With love and tenderness
That I might multiply it like beauty
In the Universe, and find
Respect and cherish women
More so than all other things
My Mother, you have always been
Like a dear friend, and have allowed me
The freedom to be myself
And in that freedom the Earth-mother
Has spoken to me, of what I need to do
To contribute back to life
All the labours of love
And all the sacrifices
To fight against cold fathers
And the rules of this world
Who hoard and profit while we struggle
These corporations who have
No ethics, barely any authenticity
Towards giving back, community
Thank you Mother, for making me
A feminist, in this world of Patriarchy
Where men exploit women
Rather than learning from them
And fault them for wanting so badly
To have children, like you did Mother
A good mother is irreplaceable
Somebody who is right for the job
It’s not everyone who should be a parent
My mother is my spine, keeping me straight and true
My blood of spiritual minerals
Making it run rich and strong
She is the beating heart of our humanity
Our guide to dreaming water
Our guide how to love ourselves and each other.
Mother, you filled my heart in the first place
With so much goodness, I am kind
A bit each day, like speechless gratitude
That purifies all it touches
It was you who taught me most
“We find ourselves in the sacrifices we make”
That love is to enjoy giving
More than receiving, it is true
The hope for altruism is still strong in me
Because I had a mother like you.
Further reading:
Millennials opting out of Motherhood:
http://mic.com/articles/114040/for-young-women-not-having-children-has-become-the-rational-decision
C a n P o e t r y M a t t e r?
There is a proliferation of new poetry
You won’t see it called poetry
It will be called sunrise
Like an anthology of all the sunrises
And it will have ingredients of
Dawns and sunsets and won’t care
Who is the poet laureate in that state
It won’t wake up to be famous
It will be just, words on public loan
For a species going extinct
The will be in denial that
Their world is going extinct
Just as poets are in denial true poetry
Is dying or has died, and nobody will know it
But the hearts will only echo it
And closed groups will try to invent it again
There is a frantic literary ambition
In writers, for they know they
Don’t have many decades in which to make it
Poets like to dream their work
May be discovered posthumously
But the problem with that is
There are too many good writers
And nobody might be around in two hundred years
To discover it, and it goes on
Poetry will be published in the
Hearts of youth, by unknown authors
And we won’t call it poetry
It will just be something that reincarnated
In them, something we inherited
Something in the brain
We didn’t’ have to take credits for it
In some undergraduate program
It will just be innate like speaking
And describing, what really matters.
Further reading:
http://www.theatlantic.com/past/docs/unbound/poetry/gioia/gioia.htm
Celebrity of You
Celebrity of You
Parting is all we know of each other
And God is all we know of heaven
So why does it feel
I walk to heaven to meet you?
They say that God is everywhere
But I felt him most
In your presence
What does it mean,
So tell me the truth and tell it with a slant
I want a love that is anterior to life
Dying a wild night
In the arms of an eternal youth.
To You, With Poems
To You, With Poems
I won’t wait for you, forever
My poems are faster than I read
Words tongued with fire
I’m the last of them, they
Live in me, it’s not a gift
To be self-forgetful
To urge on, the inner supply
Is endless, so who’s to say
That I didn’t witness
The destruction of all of man
Love is thicker than we forget
More thin than we recall
Because love is the price of everything
It’s more seldom than the wave is wet
And more true than the sun
Love is less alive than living
Subtract it and there is no fun
I won’t wait for love, I’ll live it
More frequently even in failure
More nobly even in error
And that’s why these poems
Multiply in landscapes rare
The architects must be most courageous
To let us love again.
“Love is thicker than we forget
More thin than we recall
Because love is the price of everything”
Upon Writing an Epitaph for the Universe #NaPoWriMo
On Writing an Epitaph for the Universe
I was a man made out of words
With the whisp of whispers
Held like treasures, for tomorrow
It was for celebration, not for profit
How can you profit in eternity?
I am a man made out of soul
Of spirit-stuff and fundamental particle
Of joy, I lift the mood of
Alphabets and kiss the spring-odes
I am the early book of youth
On replay, I am the unpublished joy
Of how many writers on the way?
I am an artist who has no canvas
I am the voice that has no audience
I am vanilla love that aches to write
In a brain designed for poor speech
My ballads come as surprises to myself
I write the epitaph for the universe.
Easily Aroused by the Present #Poetry #AmWriting
Aroused by the Present
I am the throng of sense
That lives in the inner trance
The watcher of all glory
In the present moment
The recurring Spring is my time
To eat lyrics for breakfast
I am not along in this
We are transparent authors
We pretend we write for ourselves
But in reality, we write
In a universal field of
Mutual atonement
We follow the same inspiration
Vibe, tone, reinforcement
The bliss of writing is well known
There is no happiness like ours
We have been eating verse
For many years now, like our own
Librarians to the cosmic sense
The poems are gone
But the stories are vivid and live on in us
Like laughter, and sunsets
I am a new man because of her
I romp with bookish joy
For all her intended felicity.
– “There is no happiness like ours
We have been eating verse
For many years now”
Moon Words
Moon Words
My heart is dilated
The pupils of my soul
Are freshly open, because of you
It’s a kind of madness
I assure you, to be influenced
I fell into you this morning
I clearly didn’t intend to
Be pierced to the roots
**
Bathing in every vein of your inner voice
All day you appear to me
A prize of one’s sanctuary gone
By literary temptation
The journals you left, I read them all
We are two songs so far apart
But I know the words, I created them
A pure happiness to know
**
The jewel of so many years
A sweet flower that was lost forever
Across the continent, I am
A mere bystander and yet
Sometimes, there’s a moon-race
Of how we both dream
On the same frequency
And a split-second after
**
In a different language
Through cultural exchanges
We both murmur the same sentence
Beneath our window into the night.
Friction of Pure Being
Aware of Moving Poems
We are moving poems
We don’t have to speak
To be acknowledged
Sometimes, we just sit
And watch the world
So much beauty, so little time
We don’t always realize
Each cell, each plant, each flower
Each star, touches other
Cells, planets, flowers, stars
Other human beings, that’s
How literature works,
That’s how the world is made
We are like moving poems
That do not need to create
For by existing, we are creative
We do without do
And influence without trying
By your very matter of being
You matter and radiate
The you-ness of your energy
It doesn’t take an effort
To live our one nature fully
But it comes out, in unspeakable ways
Surprising even the watcher
Time leads us to new poems.
Featured artist:
In no shape for Time
Outside of Time
I am always and ever
At any given point
Aware of the space between us
How we all follow some destined path
Gold, silver, green, purple
Fates, I call them ribbons
The signatures of light
We leave in the hearts of other people
When we are gone
They can approximate
How close we came to them
Inwardly, all symbolic
ii
With bodies as translucent
As the future will afford us
I am always and ever
Taking off clothes, memories
Assumptions, judgement
To reach the stillness between us
Where I wait for you dear
If you are lonely
You can always find me
Anticipating mind-touch
And the rain together like
The fragrance of forgiveness.
Your Poems became my Confessions
Your Poems became my Confessions
The poem began innocently
As lumps in your throat
You shave and trim them
Until they are perfect
But I don’t do that, I won’t
But when I read your work
Emotion finds its way
Into the architecture of psyche
Past the layers of skin
Into the bridge of passion
And as a symbol, I spontaneously
Burst with what makes you tick
As the same think that makes me whole
And that’s a powerful catalyst
For truth from grief and power
From sacrifice, and I’m an alchemist
When I read your work, and that’s
A crazy audience, uplifted from poverty
These poems begin innocently enough
So be careful what you do to me
Your words burn into me like erotic memories
And chatting about who to blame
For who we are, I fell for your ancestors
And by association, you, we both wanted
What we cannot pay enough to have
Pain became our meaning
And writing became our life
And if the present is indeed the
Revenge of the past, I have a feeling
My poems will reflect your silence.
Envious of Asian American Poets
Envious of Asian American Poets
Of course, this minute
You are giving a speech to strangers
About how you’ve lived and held in your arms
What it means to be an Asian poet in America
Or how to rinse red ginseng
From your beautiful mind
Through pulling all-nighters
Next to your laptop somewhere out there
Of course, we are all connected
This minute, I smell the fragrance
Of a little bead of perspiration
That dripped from your brow to the poem
That isn’t really a poem in front of you
It’s your literary masterpiece, but
You don’t know it yet, it can take
Your entire life, would you have guessed?
You couldn’t live with
A hundred unedited poems in your mind
You held them there turning them over
Like the word salad
I’ve become to expect from you
Diva strums the periphery of pop-culture
Diva interlopes with professors
You come from a more graceful stem
Than I do, tell me what you wanted
Out of all of this, the chorus of godliness
In decay, the beauty of sacrifice in tough quarters?
I would have seen it all with you
From your eyes, had I lived remotely
Near Vancouver, but I didn’t have the courage
To translate the world in my poems
To eat red peppers with friends
To bawl my eyes out at readings
But I’ll weep not unlike you have
And translate the pillow-talk in my head
For the quadruple platinum lyrical love
That professes to come from my heart.
Protégé
Protégé
Take me back to the dawn
Of clouds when you knew
You were going to become a writer
Juxtapositions of mean business
Drafts of volunteering with the moon?
The truth is, I was there too
I fell in love with watching you
How you reshaped alphabets, stroked
The necessary motion of your poetics
Touched the wallpaper of your dreams
Slipped crawling with angels back
To the Earth, to wherever West Coast
Because I was the ghost on your lampshade
I was the whispers of your pillow
And we were witnessing something
Of the bright side of you that is willing to share
Be influenced and collaborate
Like a marketing hook of what you would become….
Like the Writing on your Hand
Like the Writing on your Hand
Do you think it’s plausible
Just wait a second, for a moment
That we take pieces of each other
Forever influenced, eternally merged?
If I swallow your poetry
Does it thirst and settle
And make rapture
In my voice, as if forever?
Do I carry a part of you
Your narrative, meme, genes?
I think my inner Korean voice
Can attest to it, scandalously odd?
While no one is watching
There’s no one to hear
The echo of me dying
To the new one I am now
After knowing of your existence
That thingess of absence
It goes and sucks like space
But space-time is permeable
To gorgeous quotations
And that is why
I have reincarnated a piece of you
With me forever
Do you think it’s plausible?
Take a guess, run away, write
It on your hand.
The Poetic Journey
The Poetic Journey
There is a fasciation in doing
What we do, it might have been
The most genuine obsession I came upon
An altruism of a neurochemical
Some self-reward mechanism akin to
Meditation, the journey of words
It’s a customer journey of art
Of taking a craft and doing it
For an hour, a year, a lifetime
Musicians practice ten hours a day
But I’m compelled to listen
To the silence and for collisions
To collude with voices, ghosts, poets
To love what you do in gender, exhibition
Without rewards, not for profit
Sharing it freely with a world
Anonymous, not regretting
Borrowing and borrowed
Never really bored, only sitting alone
For hours pouring, peering, patiently
Waiting for the ideas of the soul
That I might do what you do
And become a bit of what you are
The sacred in the mundane
And a mystic in the invisible
Sifting language for a golden moment.
Titled Below
Like words never wholly kissed
We played our words for keeps
Aware fully of how ephemeral
They make vowels these days
Sheep, that flood the ether
The best gestures o f
The brain went unread
And the most talented beauty
Were paragraphs unpublished
I think there is no parenthesis, love
Alphabets are ruined by the internet
Poetry lives on trapped
In the syntax of the human heart
Who will never wholly kiss you
Or find the meaning behind
The trapped sentences of our lives
And these thoughts that do repeat
We played our words for keeps
Bitter for not having more
Beauty to offer, and to share
Love made our eyelids all aflutter
But innocence died
While the spring of the world
Invented a more holistic verb
To express not what was lost
But what was gained by
The new verge, enchanted vocabulary.
Great poems to not memorize
Great poems to not memorize
I’ve never memorized poems
I’ve only attempted to look
At the world with poetry
For beauty is everywhere
We just have to notice
And truth is everywhere
We only have to recognize her
I’ve never tried to be a poet
Poetry has worked
Through me like music
Like a brain on music
And a symphony on pause
A hush, a glow, maybe a tap
I look up to the light
At that moment, I’m a living
Prayer of poetry, sincerely
Surreal and in awe of how
Beautiful life can be
The inner journey that is ours.
The Unconditional Will to Live
The Unconditional Will to Live
Say tomorrow doesn’t arrive.
Say tomorrow doesn’t come
Say we don’t make it, what
Would you do, in your last
Year on the home planet?
In your last revolution
Of the Earth around the Sun?
Live like it, like that
From the pit of your stomach
From the top of your lungs
With the moments staring
At your mortal beating heart
Don’t say, it doesn’t matter
Every moment does, we are
As common and rare as stars
With thoughts knitted together
Acts of helping that knit together
Communities, families, countries
Peoples, groups, lovers of
Knowledge, art, cities, humanity
Say tomorrow doesn’t arrive
Say you never get to have children
Say we don’t make it, what
Would you do for real
What really matters, what
Makes you feel lucky, grateful, heroic?
So do that more, and say
We never got a chance to meet
Say you stayed home that night?
Say you want to feel alive, then do.
Silence is Nature’s beat tapping all hearts
Silence is Nature’s beat tapping all hearts
Silence is the sound of thought
For quantum silence would
Mean to not exist, and that is
Impossible for perception
Silence is not a lack of anything
Devoid of words, music, anxiety
It’s the great equalizer
The period in-between incarnations
The condition in-between encounters
And the sacred space that
Separates people, brains, chatter
The voices in our minds still
Sprout flowers faithful to the intent
That created them, the karmic non-hush
I’ve studied silence a lifetime
And still know nothing about her
For she is like the Tao, resting in action
Nestling in every leaf of every tree
Silence in the sun singing
Out loud but not for us to hear
Because we do not hear in light frequency
I can be content however
With silence as a blade of grass
Silence as utopia, purity, simplicity
The bareness of necessity
That transcends desires, wants, needs
A dream healer and healing dream
A drum sleeper and a sleepy drum
A cosmic background mother crying
Upon branches, beaches, even in
Crowded streets, I can feel it
Exhausted and spiralling
The presence unto nothing.
Before the azure sister of spring
Before the azure sister of spring
I met a traveller from an antique land
With golden lips and stories of the future
He spoken of love outlasting weary fate
The lone and level destiny we all must face
I would have sung his song
Had I known the lyrics of dreams
These echoes and lights unto eternity
And seasons that pass with a blink
Of tears and farewells, and all
That is beautiful will come yet again
In another body and mind, to be sure
We are all nomads travelling
From one place to another
And we know where we go
Even if we feign ignorance
The rivers have always mingled
With the oceans and everything
Has always been single, by laws divine
And the Earth never could kiss
High heaven, and the birds never stooped
To eat long there, but preferred
To stray among the clasps of sunlight
What is this sweet embrace of youth?
Is it the cry of life or the nudge of death?
Serotonin is on her Sails
Serotonin is on her Sails
I felt a celebration in the end
Of a funeral in the brain
That was not so much Serotonin
But something else, I cannot say!
Something in me enjoyed tragedy
Or the idea of bare simplicity
Nude in anonymity,
Like the keen peace of silence
Or the agony of intimacy
With nobody, but something else
That’s descendent divinity
The space between one
Season of life and another
The waiting, the wrecked waiting….
I felt a celebration in the dark
Of suffering at her fuel’s end
Where mourners leave the known world
And where lovers turn to go
When all the kisses have run out.
One unexpected delight
-Wanting Qu bridges cultures, namely Vancouver and China, and I have to admit, I’m a bit smitten of this song (that inspired this poem).
One unexpected delight
You exist in my dreams
Like an intimate breath of hope
A radiant inexhaustible humour
That becomes a voice
And when I see you in the world
A voice whispers in my mind
That we are all connected
If you had the desire
To do good or beautiful things
I know you will, even as you live
In my heart, like a shade of light
Not like a stranger, but a feeling
That needs no explanation
An unexpected delight
That has a queer power of destiny
In the grace of your eyes
I see the youth of everyone’s dreams
Like an intimate sign of
How the world is big and small
The fate of all the worlds
That becomes a voice
I see you in all life
A voice whispers in my heart
That we are all connected
If you evolve to find a way
Out of selfishness, remember
The others who stood by you
Were not always the expected ones
Where the moon can set below
The Pleiades and familiar stars
You exist in my dreams
Without any hesitation
So I leave you there until
I am able to perceive you
In the blessed days ahead of me.
—————————–
Mythweaving our way to happiness
Mythweaving our way to happiness
Where are the ornament of joy
Are they hidden from us?
Of all the stars most beautiful
I cannot convey
——————————–
How difficult it is to view them
Here, in the city
Where men walk over other men
Who lie sleeping on the ground
——————————–
We put the dazzling dawns
In our pockets
And forget them there
So rushed are we to
——————————–
Achieve our goals
Like, saving up for retirement
Or, planning our next trip
Meeting someone to make us happy
———————————-
Cloth dripping
Gold exposed
Parents dying
Numbness all around…..
————————————-
Where are the clues to learning?
Have we forgotten how to change?
Of all the silver slips of space
I cherish most
————————————
I cannot convey
But I am not someone
Who likes to wound
Rather, I have a quiet mind
————————————–
We compete in this world
And I converse in my dreams
With the desire to do good
In a world as helpless as this.
the heart grew cold
the heart grew cold
I am the punctuation of blame
I carry glorious embarrassment
Lyrics of shame
———————————
So beautiful I dance in my own darkness!
I am thus arranged
Flawed, figured, curved in cursive
———————————————-
Space of blessedness
Syntax of struggle
Heart
Absolutely
I can
Write, having been stained
——————————————–
By a shine in your answer
Pan
To tell
The tongues of tales
Of men
I am the waiting, patience, sacrifice
———————————————-
Of women, mothers, having worked
Their entire lives without
Poetic justice or reward
Maybe only
The ever-after
Of what children might become
————————————————
We all grow and find
Pity
Trembling
—————————————————-
In the flesh of regret
Gone astray would I
Mostly love to sing to you
But that day can never come
For you are gone
And I am trapped in poetry.
———————————————————–https://soundcloud.com/intemasolutionsinc/poetry-the-heart-grew-cold
Expression of mystical love
The great day is when you are set free
From your personality, ego, attachments
The soul sets free upon pure service
Never to profit the same again
The body no longer craves biology
And the brain no longer craves
The familiar suffering of existence
It requires rather the essence of holiness
The value of sacredness and sacrifice
The poetry of inner spirit and divinity
It’s a state of ecstasy the common
Mind cannot entertain, know, or touch
On that day, filled by the vision of
Something beyond humanity
The tribe, the wars, the history
I found my body became purer tears
No trace remained of why I loved myself
Or what I sought for myself alone
I was no longer an individual alone
Against an indifferent world
But I was a privileged duty to serving God
God without a seal of belief or book of faith
God the universe without possessions
God the love without the need for a lover.
Solution to a Mystical Book of Epigrams
The circle of our coming and our going
Melts here in infinite knowing
Such that has no beginning
Or shall maybe ever have an end
For no one can ever in this world explain
The love that bears the pain
Through centuries of the Keeper
Who arranges the body of this universe
That nothing is truly good or evil
It just is what it is and evolves
Finally to decay and start again
I leave a drunkard of time and place
And holy tears stream my eyes
Not for my little portion of profit or children
Not for experience or her legacy of trials
But because I know everyone stands
In a limited place, without freedom
Only occasional moments of outbreaks
That might last but a few seconds
Of eternity, and so my days are spent
Circling and tracing the way back
To the source, as if in rehab from unity
I must accept this divided world
As a lonely place or as a solitude yearning
For another kind of bliss, I am friendless
Among so many people, so many routines
That barley have time to say or thought at all
If the one I love is God, do I need any friend?
Wuji Seshat 