paradoxes

-
When did life turn into a fake scenario?
Am I bleeding after the war?
Or am I blushing behind a door?
It's such a mirror maze taken seriously;
Walking in honourable fashion,
Into yourself until you ashen.

When did I turn it into an oddly crime?
Am I guilty of choosing what I want?
Or am I guilty for being nonchalant?
I turned it into this subliminal game;
Winning is so close to coming 2nd,
Losing is not close to being reckoned.

Was it always such a race of mice?
Did she strave to death on the way?
Or was she walked on until she turned grey?
In the wildly tribute to all the dead,
They gather around the leftover dirt,
Say things that never sound assert.

When did life become a beautiful tragedy?
Am I the best thing that ever occurred?
Or am I the only thing ever so absurd?
My breath so light I might just lose it;
Into the darkness of forever,
Or into the brightness of never.

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