A Creative space for me to share my art, please feel free to enjoy, collaborate, comment or take inspiration or motivation. Every interaction is a blessing, may the neon glow find you.
The concept is from ritual to algorithm, from roots to the stars. Taking nature’s beauty, humanity’s wisdom and reimaginaning these concepts into the future. It’s sovereignty intact, it’s essence eternal and the peace it brings a blessing, always.
Meditation for the Lost
“Lost wanderer, are you home? Through calamity and pain, your journey — akin to the circles — is not yet written. Home is not the enclosure of an abode. Each pulse compounds a thought, a striving for serenity not yet grasped. Before, you would tilt your head high, a bluff in a devil's game of poker. Yet now you bow, not out of submission but humility. Your scars entwined, corruption becoming integrity — and still the pain beats on.
Beneath you is the very ground on which a million souls have stumbled and fallen. Here you stand — anchored in deep roots — yet still despondent. The warmth of timeless energy flowing around you, wisps beyond reach. Each noise, each vision, flinching your core. The craving for courage spiralling out of control. Plant your feet, wanderer. The storm has not passed.
Inhale greedily and exhale reluctantly, for each may be the last. Fear and panic strike body and soul, will you relent? 1..2..3 hold! Let life fill you or death will. Stay your hand, calm your mind. Now you test the measure of your resolve. In a storm of emotions, will you hoard the breath or be consumed?
Remember the ancients who walked before you and pay heed to those who will stumble on the footprints you leave behind today. Your mind will wander, your heart will race but your spirit will take root. So, pick up the grit with bare hands and grimace as the winds rise around you. Connect to survive, connect to live, connect…
Are you home? Are you home?
Concrete cracked and the rose still grown.
Ain't no door, ain't no key, ain't no stone —
Just the road and the pulse and the bone.
Are you home? Are you home?
Every scar is a script of my own.
Corruption turning into iron, understand —
And still the pain beats on.
VERSE 1
Used to sit at the table with my chin in the air,
bluffing God with a hand that was never even there.
Devil dealing, I was smiling like the smile was a plan —
double down on a lie till it looks like a man.
Now I bow. Not broke, not begging, not beat —
just low enough to hear what's under my feet.
Journey ain't written, I'm still holding the pen,
and the ink's coming out of the places I've been.
Calamity, pain, took the long way round,
been through the circles, came back to the ground.
Home's not a room where the curtains stay shut,
it's the walking, the aching, the getting back up.
Every pulse compounds — thought on a thought,
striving for a stillness I ain't fully caught.
So read me: I'm scars and the scars are a text.
Corruption becoming integrity. What's next.
HOOK
VERSE 2
Look down. That's a million men deep,
souls who stumbled where you're standing on your feet.
Same paving, same night bus, same shift —
some of them fell and they never got lift.
I'm anchored, roots in, and I'm still on the floor
of a feeling I can't name and I can't ignore.
There's a warmth going past me like a train through a town,
close enough to feel it, can't get on, can't sit down.
Wisps beyond reach. Sirens and light,
every noise, every vision, taking bites out my night —
core flinching, sensory flood, and the door
of the craving cracks open, wants courage, wants more.
That's the trick of it: hunger dressed up as brave,
liquid confidence poured on a shallow grave.
So I plant. Hold the ground like a bet I can't fold.
The storm hasn't passed. It just found me. Be told.
HOOK
VERSE 3
Breathe in greedy. Breathe out like a debt —
like the air's on loan and it wants me in the red.
Fear striking body, panic striking soul,
and the urge to just let go is a mouth, is a hole.
One. Two. Three. Hold.
Let the life fill me up or the death's gonna go.
Stay the hand. Not the mind, just the hand —
mind can spin like a wheel while the hand understands.
Measure of resolve, no medal, no crowd,
just a man in a bedsit not saying it out loud.
Storm in the chest — do I hoard up the breath
or get consumed like the ones who got left?
I hold. And I hold. And I hold. And then —
I remember the ancients, the ones who came in
before me, walked it, wore it, went on,
left prints in the wet and I'm stood in them, drawn.
And someone's behind me. Someone's gonna trip
on the same crooked stone where I lost my grip.
So pick up the grit with the bare of my hands,
grimace as the wind comes, that's the plan —
Mind gonna wander, heart gonna race,
spirit taking root in this cold-tarmac place.
Connect to survive. Connect to live.
Connect. Connect. Connect—