beautiful

-
grieving is beautiful, isn't it?
all the days self doubting,
all the noons self ranting,
all the nights self deprecating.

there's beauty in that valley, isn't there?
so low yet feels like you're high,
so invisible but catches the eye,
so thoroughly shaded but why?

oh how beautiful is it to be delusional.
in the way her thought proceeds, 
in the way her mind utterly bleeds,
in the way she's living her deeds.

the moon is beautiful, isn't it?
among the stars but special and alone,
admired enough to be on a throne, 
listening to stories of the unknown.

so much beauty in her mild thoughts, 
pictures ivy covering the wet walls,
the smell of wood down the halls,
she freezes her world beside the falls. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

reclaiming your lands

-
torch light and tight ropes tied to metal bars in a hideout. sip on inhibitions with high hopes, you say "I'm sure." when suffocating in doubt. the ropes pull tighter as the time ticks, so many choices not to choose from. returning to Earth when it's all fixed, but you're still searching for who to run from. your hearts put in the open, to bleed, and drain, and flow, and your mind's been so unspoken since the day you lied twice in a row. laughing with the wrong crowd, what a way to cover that pain? dark humour is death being proud, the silent mourning was vain. the dust wore off and the sun settled. look past the world's voices and commands, of who you are and what you'll be, and untie those ropes by reclaiming your lands.
Read more

mere imitations

-
we're all just mere imitations in a play of life, what if the stage lights go out in the strife? I can smell the smoke and hear the knife, a mile away from a damaged and shattered rife. we're different in medium, object, or mode, but hung onto the sense of imitation, where rhythm, harmony, and melody flowed, we bow to the natural art's liberation. we're the most imitating beings alive, to coexist in mirrors we build and burn, hanging on the stage with a thrive, desperate to be let down, to cry and yearn. we're characters either admirable or inferior, dying to be the accused in someone else's play, crying to be a victim in your own theatre, mere words and actions strung on display. we're starring in comedies or tragedies on the set, sit still and watch or be watched by the rest, mere bodies and voices in harmony and sweat, you either jump or are pushed and it's all for the best. 
Read more

thirty minutes or thirty seconds?

-
This sanguine feeling fades too quick, I'm back to thinking about the what-if. What if my face gave away my trick? Thirty minutes or thirty seconds at the edge of the cliff. The right side of the wrong lane, I should've known what was going on. The steering wasn't balanced again, Thirty minutes or thirty seconds gone. The smell of insanity was too close to ignore. What if the car gave up on this highway? Where would I run for help, and what for? Thirty minutes or thirty seconds before it all turned grey. No way I would slow down after the scar. Fourth gear, full speed, but still on the wrong lane. Might've got hit, but wouldn't mind the dirt and tar. Thirty minutes or thirty seconds of insane. Everything all at once on a Sunday. So blinded to see the scar it left. But I still feel the rage when I replay Thirty minutes or thirty seconds left.
Read more