Bug A Boo

Honey bees,
lick the acid from the trees.

I see,
unseen,
scenes.

You feel,
unfair,
phantasm.

Flittering flowers,
flutter away.

Pensive ladybugs,
get snug in their rugs.

Goodbye spring.

Hello cold.

Consciousness of the Unconscious

A while back I decided I won't suffer for my art.

Instead, I choose to make art from lifes suffering.


My glittery dreams are written down on paper, and tossed into a camp fire.

The legacy that exists inside myself will now inhabit the wind.


Each time the wind blows, there I'll be.


I was here.