Is it the frame that holds, the muscle tight,
The heart that battles through the endless fight?
The crown of fame, the riches seized,
Or seer-sight burning where all lies are teased?

Is it the voice of gods, the soul in art,
The quiet choice, the courage to start?
The face of dawn, eyes wide with sky,
Or sunborn fire that could make worlds die?

What makes a man? The pact with shade,
The secrets buried, the occult conveyed.
The masks he wears, the games he plays,
Or thorns and roses where his spirit sways?

You gaze—yet truth has slipped the frame,
A tide too vast for thought to claim.
In vaulted halls where echoes fail,
Sound stalks like smoke, too thin to trail.

We dream in frames we cannot fuse,
See fractured signs and call them truths.
The sun must drown for stars to speak,
While cycles turn, and silence reaps.

Eyes half-shut miss the arc of skies,
And worship forms as if they're wise.
But those who cling will hear the chime—
Again and again.
Time breaks its crown, then reigns in rhyme.

Picture frame of ugliness – but not what the world sees,
when your paint yourself under your insecurities.
Does that make you a coward; or are their eyes
the cowards, too afraid to see the real picture of
themselves?

societal expectations, and passive judgments –
behold their critical gaze; yet so are the eyes that can’t
stare themselves in the face. so too, blinded by their
own fears, and personal insecurities.

But as you start to peel away at the metaphoric picture
frame, retracing their hidden layers of drawn over
strokes of new paint - embracing vulnerability;

I'm between finding myself in my inner self-criticism,
and external judgments – I could be the picture of the
prettiest flowers, and hoping one day I learn to paint
myself under the brushstrokes of security, and
vulnerability!

my picture is finally complete!

Adolf ******
Was a lot littler
Than most Aryan brothers
And their mothers.

A living "still picture" if you're living,
A once lived "still memory" if you're dead!!

The drops are so much deeper,
and the highs aren't high at all.
Ongoing expectant measures listed,
of these persistent calls to pressure.
To fill a frame that's drained,
when switching off is no longer an option.
Are these real problems or signs of age?

Before was easier, yesterday simpler,
but would the early days help to mould,
when you've already grown from there.
Late observations of missed play,
a rug pull calls out the fool to vacate.
As we're a little bitter in vain,
there's no sweetness today.