In the forest there are eyes

Strolling through leaves and evergreen pines

Though there is rustling at the sides

Heading straight forward nothing in sight.

The trees subside and reveal an open place

Where high grass and wild flowers show their grace

Suddenly a swine comes running your way

As soon it falls down, by an arrow slayed.

It all went unnoticed and quiet

Not a change in the air or climate

Yet hidden away by great hight

Is the man responsible for such a sight

He goes unseen incognitos

Wanders between stars and Delos

Air's titan never once written in epos

No one observes the skilled Lelantos

P.P.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Uncle Rick really is a mastermind

I haven't seen anyone mention it yet but the Percy Jackson live action series is coming out Dec 20, 2023.

And that's the winter solstice.

Someone remind me, when did the lightning bolt get stolen in the first book?

Do you ever let you mind master you soul? Do you sometimes let logic take control? Did you ever built a stone cold wall? And does no-one really try to make it fall?Does your heart yearn for more than the everyday shore? Want to ignite the sparks in your core, but your soul still senses sore?

When it is always to much? When it is all near the clutch? When you say that I'm such, a clever girl?

When it makes too much sense? When I can no longer dance? When do I get my chance to show what I'm worth?

Does it ever make mistakes? Does it always take and take? And it never dares to break, so it stays the same?

Can you hear the fury of the sky? Can you taste the drops on your skin? Does it ever make you smile? Does it ever get you wondering?

P. P.

Is it really a mistake if it was made purposely?

P.P.

I like thinking

I've always liked it and it makes me feel clever and useful, but whenever I start doing that in the presence of someone else, people start asking what's wrong. And I don't think there's anything wrong with thinking about what's wrong. But why do people always assume that? I know their explanation 'I care about you, tell me what's going on' but they wouldn't believe me if I said I was thinking about how I would paint a wall if I had the chance, about the latest show I watched or other hobby's and activities I've been doing.

There is nothing wrong with me for wanting to use my brains. I just really like questions.

I like answering them, it shows my clever, and sometimes even wisdom. I like questions because I like knowledge and to answer them you have to gain the information first, but then again without questions you won't reach wisdom.

So moral of the story: don't associate thinking with problems, but rather with solutions or wisdom.

For once I'll write something that isn't a real poem. I won't write down my feelings but just the wishes and words I carry. I want to tell you how I look up at the trees. I don't spend a glance on the roots, I look up, always, at the very top of the tree. I see the cerulean sky and the wind waving through the branches and the leaves. I see the sunrays on the green and everything else just fades from my vision. I start daydreaming and I start to imagine what it would have been like for someone else.

For another soul, from a different world, from a different time. I imagine them looking up at the very same treetops. This sight could be seen anywhere, and yet I am the one who gets to experience it every single day no matter where I am. The sky perfectly blending in with the horizon behind the woods inspires me, encourages me to start a journey, an adventure.

I like to dream about people, happily chatting, around a fire in that woods a long time ago. I imagine kids running and royals riding horses in that woods far far from here. I love to make myself believe that there's so many people who've looked up and thought, wow, this is what I want other people to see.

And I so desperately hope that there are other creatures who've looked up at that same sky. So in some sort of way that unites us. In some sort of way were not so alone anymore. By now you've read through a few words and none of it probably makes sense anymore, but it also doesn't really for me.

And you what, looking up at treetops doesn't have to make sense to me, because it makes peace, it makes me happy, it makes me feel love, inspiration, wonder and just fine, just okay. So if you ever feel lonely again, or if you don't feel anything at all, please look up, please daydream. And I really hope you'll one day find something as silly as looking up at treetops for yourself.

P. P.

cogitatio > sensus

P. P.

It graces my eyes,

the grape colored streaks

and the serenity of the skies.

The light will shine

on the mulions, freed of curtains,

while slowing down time.

It is painting poetry,

the solemn towering leaves

of late and of early.

I am alone.

I see no one, no one sees me,

not even Aurora's glow.

Not the still not risen sun,

not the already fallen moon,

not the finally fading stars,

not slowly disappearing gloom.

My head longs for its peace and its quiet,

my heart thinks it is free while still private,

My lungs smell like dew descending then rising,

And my skin breathes in the blank and its dying.

P.P.

You have to be so brave to write a book, especially to write an autobiography.

I can't imagine what it must be like laying so many parts of your soul open.

P. P.

"How do you get so much respect from others, while everything you say is against their beliefs?" ~I asked

"I guess I've just stuck around for long enough" ~Chiron answered

P. P.

I sit

I sit still

All alone on a bench

And I think about all the days in which we had a chance

to touch each other, to feel each other near, to exchange conversation, to be held long and dear.

Your not next to me, but then again you are

You cannot leave my mind, but can rip my heart apart.

It's tormenting not seeing your face, but I am afraid I lack the courage for meeting your gaze.

Our story is a tale of love and grief, a tale of love and pain, of love and disbelief.

Our moments play in my mind, memories of happiness, thoughts of the love I should've signed

Now the end of your story has finally been reached, but I'll keep looking at the horizon, for long I have preached

That these days would never come, that this case would never end, that these greys hadn't won, that this way wouldn't descend.

Long we went through life like shining sun and moon, now the eclipse has happened all is dark and doom.

I'm held between the stars and you should be there somewhere too, and I kinda wish I was dead so I could forever be with you.

P. P.

I want to give a bit of an explanation with this one. I usually leave it for you to think about and to interpret it the way you want, but this poem can be read in two particular ways.

- the first time you read it you probably imagine someone who's going through a breakup, someone who has lost their lover, overall having a hard time. From this point of view they tell you how they've hurt each other and now the other has moved on, but the narrator will continue to think about their love.

- the second way to read it is also about love and about missing someone, but not in the sense of a relationship. In this story a loved one has died, and the poet tries to cope with it, by constantly thinking about them, of course that doesn't help.

And I think that love and grief are very similar in that way. We can't stop thinking about them and there are so many thoughts and questions stuck in your head that at times you wish you would've taken their place.

Because in your eyes I'll never be

what you are to me

P. P.

When you look at these pictures you might be amazed by how beautiful and full of peace this world is. But when I see it I start to imagine myself in a different time. I feel the wind around me stirring up the leaves. I want to be in a story, I want adventure and I want some force to take me away from here and tell me what my purpose is. But why is that fate only reserved for the protagonists and the extroverts and people who have so many loved ones that they don't want to leave behind. I never seem to understand why they would chose to return to our world. We, introverts, wallflowers, artists, dream of such worlds such days, such adventures.so why don't we get a chance on such a world. why are we always the ones who can make so much happen with our imagination, but hvavae to be satisfied with sitting in our room on our own. Do you know which part the introvert gets in the stories? The villian. Apparently when you keep to yourself for to long, you become evil. But I am only ever myself when I'm alone. Does that mean that the only true time I can fully be myself I am an antagonist? I want to escape into time and space so badly. I don't want to be the misunderstood damsel. Which is most of the time just because the people are too closeminded and are not willing to make an effort of understanding.

I want to get a chance to live my fantasy.

I want to get lost in my imagination.

I want to get my escape plan ready.

I want to get a key to my creation.

P. P.

QUICK THOUGHT :

When I write a poem, I start naming laughter, and people togheter and other warm stuff, when describing thing that make me happy, but actually I do not like those things at all. We just get thought that the winter is sad and that summer is for parties. We get taught what's supposed to be happy and what should be sad. I think that that is sad, think about the beauty of imagination and feeling we're missing out on. The art that can be made with it

I am kind but I am obsidian. I am light but I am distant. I'm the reflection of the sun on the lakes in which people drown. I am stuck in a tunnel. I am running towards the exit, but I think I like the darkness and don't want to escape it. I am stuck in a tunnel And it's getting claustrophobic. I feel the walls pulling on all sides And with just reason I won't make it. This is a problem for my heart to solve And in the mean time I will just dissolve. But my trust can't be placed in my heart, the place is complex, unused and dark. I long for freedom and opinion, I need recognition and want inspiration. That tunnel is where I find what I seek: I can wonder, I can show what I feel and I can bathe in my melancholy. The most beautiful art is born from pain, but I don't have a broken heart or miserable story to paint. Following an empty dark hole, the tunnel, my obscure path, is what gets my closer to beauty, to a wonderful head.

P.P.

I have no consciousness of what day we are, but that doesn't really matter. Because the sooner I can get to the evening the life and the wonder the better. Propelling amongst every other soul makes me feel so lifeless, numb and drained. But when the sky trades its sunrays for stars my emotions no longer feel restrained. I couldn't explain to you how the moon holds my gaze, not ever a blink. It's glow burns the thoughts in my mind, constantly guessing what others might think. My minds starts dwelling off down a path made out of wonder. Eventually there will come a wave that actually pulls me under. I look back up at the mirror of light and as it patiently watched me write, I realized that that same moon saw how all of the poets died.

P. P.

(Do I need to explain myself to anyone? Do my words even weigh down? How can people hear but never listen, watch but miss the frown.)

Lots of people and poets refer to the seasons when expressing change, but every time they do it I find it to be a little strange.

Sizzling sunshine does morph into auburn autum, which in her turn falls into wintry weather 'till poppies start to blossom.

After the passing of a year the landscape's view has diversed four times. Although, just like all the previous years, nature follows the same design.

Change is never permanent, and I think that resembles what the seasons show. But if you ask me if it is a good comparison, I would tell you I don't know.

Winter follows autumn, and autumn comes after summer. Remember that after frost the flora manages to recover.

And warmth does not last, just like the sun goes down each day. The moon goes through phases but the stages stay the same.

Winter stays winter and spring will always be following.

So, even if the periods differ, I won't mistake them for changing.

P. P.