Literature

There are those who write, and those who achieve the quality of literature, and the ones who write, without achieving this, write within a certain kind of vanity, their eyes are not focussed on the soul, and they self opine, before they reach the end of the page, and they will express how great they are, and how accepted, but they are on a narrow road with a simple conclusion, and they will never touch the magic, that being in touch with literature allows.

Thief of My Soul

Thief of my soul, that is what you are when you plagiarise me, and my soul is pure, and what springs from it, asks for no reward, therefore I am not vulnerable, I stand alone in a comfortable and true place, I have no self acceptance, and no sense of personal acclaim, these are all just lies, and deviations, my journey is on a spiritual path, very much lateral, to the shallow of dillusionary acceptance, and alas, there are shadows, always shadows, and they can be so close, that they can dwell in me, and I believe that they do, these are the shadows of memories, of ones, accepted and embraced, there can be no aloneness, when there is the awareness of memory, just a beautiful solitude.