My passion is not you.
It is the flower that grows from the dirt of lost souls.
The wind that never wants to keep things in place.
The side of my mind are not open to the desire of free.
Trimming the bread just to get half of it cut.
These stories of life are writing by the eyes of the souls.
This is not kind to tell, but mine to hold.
Loving the hope of it, but this is all I have to say.
Misconception 