17 at no where to think, leave the house or dream, finding ways out of that mental pattern, following hues and internal palettes, finding ways to heal the nightmares, where God spreads apart the sky, and all the tears inside feel in vain, or at least the practice of feeling no longer insane, a stability on high and high ground within blankets of warmth as well as peace, to find stability inside the inner corners of outlets, finding ways to see the stars within my own space of vision, to see the trees as they are in the magic of the power within vessels of space and time, continues. alone through the breeze as fear as a nightmare living. realizing that the past traumas of memories are not intuition, that maybe intuition warns of a similar feeling but not the same fate in the present moment. which makes it hard to tell, rose colored glasses, in sight of miracles, in sight of finding the true soul underneath the essence of false identity or patterns within cyclic nature. the freedom to feel, the freedom to laugh, the freedom to see the world or stay separated from the whole of humanity. feeling different, constantly finding space in creation and space as a lack of trust. how do I trust internal wounds, as fact or fiction, as peace and identity, and as finding security of heart. finding rhythms or values, loyalty to my word as well as space, trying to change the inner you, not because I don’t see what’s inside, or remorse as a form of keep, but a sensation inside, that this isn’t you and me. detached from the regular irregular patterns. wish I could feel my 17th past-self healing again as a form of peace from moving on from past wounds. resurrection of present personality.

one day you'll read this bio when I'm a published poet author and photography author