it's cloudy and raining to the north

the need to write, ney
the desire, the passion, the necessity
to write
is suffocating
to view beauty all around the world
takes a keen perspective
though others take it for granted
they take advantage
of the flesh
of magic and sorcery, of the mind
they need not look further
for a miracle
than their own pure heart, or not
then gracefulness is admonished
and hate seeps in through greasy pores
the mind is lost, psychadelica
where even a rain drop holds significance
but not beauty
when even the ground is understood
but not appreciated

a clear mind heals all wounds of malcontent