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I welcome into my life all that was aligned and pushed away.
I welcome into my life trust.
Trust to allow the walls to shatter into a million pieces of foam.
Foam to form.
Foam to fade.
I allow steps inward.
Closer, closer.
No need to run.
No need to chase.
Allow the discomfort.
No games.
Allowing the illusions to move through my being.
Wash away the mess.
White mist.
Pure form.
No dust.

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Lay upon the Mantle.

When you take me through the storm.
You lay your hand upon my heart and rest me still.
There I layed upon the mantle of mist.
Held, caressed by Mothers breast.
Upon the Earth of times layed by a nearing of the song.
It shall call you, you shall hear it.
It sings your hearts true song.
The surges, vibration.
The tremors of flow.
Rising high, rising low.
A quiver of Earth.
Shake to fall.
So the dust does settle.
Risen up.
Yellow sun.
The call.

Written by Helen Rebecca Hart.

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Neon- orange.
The chills.
Joy sublime.
Creativity opens.
Sensuality high.
Breathe in the colour.
Movement ignites.
As the fire within.
Peaks sexual highs.
Shivers my spine.
No timber in sight.
Nor pirate.
Yet Parrots speak.
No eyes.
Velvet within.
True inner bliss.
No sin.

Written by Helen Rebecca Hart

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On lock in lockdown,
Glass on eye.
Blue petals,
The days went by.
The torrey,
Took time,
Mine to call.
I made the choice,
To raise them all.
Pink petals,
Hot pink,
Pure love,
Lips sync.
Green lay still,
Beyond the hill,
We heard the call,
Through all.
There’s no distinction,
Big nor small.
Gates open.

Poem + paint – Helen Rebecca Hart.

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As I rise.
In the eyes.
Of the rose of rock.
Withers ways of green days.
Old Shepard flock.
Till the nigh.
Held deep inside.
One must delve within.
Bearer of lamp.
You will find.
That which up till now.
Had been fully hidden.
As the hand.
Pushes down.
In the deepest gut.
The fist of fate.
Will elate.
In the hand of God.

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As I sit here and my heart opens so much it hurts.
It hurts to see how much I betrayed my truths to fit in to societies standards.
Somehow, somewhere I lost my way.
Putting the pen in the hand of another, waiting, forever waiting for a sign, a man, a breakthrough.
The one I sought was always here, underneath the layers and layers of shattered dreams.
Yearning, longing to hold herself, love herself, fall deeply in love with the simple complexity of her ever changing form.
Always here, never left.
Do I desire fame, no.
Do I desire success, no.
Do I desire to be well known, liked, understood, frankly no.
I want a simple life, one where I flow with the tides, breeze and ever changing form of existence.
I want to feel the air on my face, the grass under my feet and not know where I begin and they end and even if it’s me experiencing, observing these delicious delights.
To not even question this or speak of this absolute imperfect perfection.
I’m tired of trying.
Trying to find myself, my destiny, what I’m here for, who I am, what I’m here to bring to life.
All I have to bring to life is myself and that for me is more than enough.
I am not how I look, what I say, the good or bad I do, the work I create.
Really I’m nothing and in that everything.
An expanded creation of everything and nothing all at the same time through the hand of God’s honey nectar golden liquid light.
A formless form of ever expanding vastness, experiencing life in perfect simplicity.
I don’t desire to be anything, anything other than my true nature.
Anything else feels superficial.
I cannot try anymore.
It breaks me, separates me, hollows my fullness.
I can’t try to fit into societies boxes.
I wish to dance to the song of creation with no expectation.
A flowing flow of formless form.
That’s as close as I can explain.
Words cannot cover the truth of ones nature.
There is no being small or stepping up fuelling my soul or spirit in my world.
I just want to be me, unexplainable, vast, free.
I choose to be me.
I loosen the grip of control.
Flowing once again.
Forever like water.
It finds it’s purpose in the flow.
Not in the frozen.
Lost and found in the wonder of flow.

Art + writing – Helen Rebecca Hart.

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The sock.
Tic tock.
Yet it ain’t a clock.
Pinched to a wire.
Alone in the fire.
Tic tock, tic tock.
A sock with no flock.
Sock wiggled the world.
Was not looking for a buyer.
As the church bell rang thrice.
Sock came to see.
That the air one feels.
Such a pleasure, click of heels.
The Earth was his friend.
Breath and a wiggle.
Sock transcended higher.

Sock, photo and poem – Helen Rebecca Hart.