Tag Archives: prose

Monthly Archives: March 2015

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Poet

Posted on March 30, 2015 by MuseWriter

 

Oh Poet

Writer of lovely verses

With your imagination

Shaping metaphorical figures

Around your bright red

Tongue

Do you know me

Oh Poet

You claim to see

To make us believe

However daunting your task

How far will you run?

There’s a garden

Laid with flowers

More than the violets

That you seek

Sunflowers stand tall

Guarding the edges

Oh Poet

What others would you find?

Once betrayed

Forgiven never forgotten

If you choose conquest

Over silence

You reap what you sow

I am grateful for words ❤

 

A Bullet to the Heart

Posted on March 26, 2015 by MuseWriter

I don’t know why we fall in and out of love

Humans hoard their vulnerabilities until they forget how to feel

We gorge on the sensitivities of those perceptible to our eye(s)

Acting as a kitchen sponge rather than a breathing being

There are those who can love

There are those who can be loved

Some people greedily accept whatever they can get

While others try to hold onto anything attainable

Fake smiles, lies, darkened thoughts, and mind fucks

Each skill handed off in this game of manipulation

She stole his heart so now he must go steal one for himself

It’s a dog-eat-dog world in this ‘spiritual’ madness

As all of the lost lovers gather together on the firing line;

A bullet to the heart is surely the only way to kill one’s afflictions

I don’t know why we fall in and out of love

 

A Familiar Name, A Familiar Face

Posted on March 16, 2015 by MuseWriter

Someone is talking in the distance

Indistinguishable words that hum into ears

The stars shine brilliantly between the black waves

Churning thoughts and emotions overhead

Air clings to the body like scaling skin

Pieces of flaky layers of the World around

A virus killing softly within the wind

Tempting the breath of those chosen

Figures dance by in all of their fancy

Pretty faces with open mouths smiling wide

Boys and girls falling victims to the Romantics

Inventing lives upon hurtful stories and lies

Would you recognize my face if you saw me?

Would you guess what I could be thinking?

These are the questions that I dream about

The answers we seek often never surprises

Energy breaks free into me then through

A solid wall of heavy empty space

Another piece of the imaginary puzzle

A familiar name, a familiar face

 

Here I Am

Posted on March 3, 2015 by MuseWriter

 

Clumsy animals of the wild

Asking for handouts to survive

Picking up the pieces out of spite

Accepting peanut shells able to find

We eat to count the years of life

Sustaining the body in anyway, every time

Self-proclaimed Masters of ignoring emotional strife

Can you hear me calling?

I thought I wasn’t even trying

Until the sky began falling

And now,

Here I am

Fresh Snow

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Fresh Snow

I awoke in a feverish confusion with my face buried in a pillow of

Soft and cozy comfort to forget the burning grasp of mind as my

Lungs rasped for breath through another coughing fit

 

Pimply goosebumps held me hostage underneath a pile of blankets as I

Claimed ignorance of sickness while tuning in and out of a

Reality that doesn’t seem to exist anyway

 

Feeling secure in the pigmented softness within my living room of

My hand-me-downs of beloved cushions and linens with their

Shapes and patterns begging for attention

 

Seeing the contrast from my window view where I imagined how

I would paint the World by using color found at home but instead seized

Unplanned moments to revel in the beauty of a fresh snow

 

I am grateful for rest ❤

Monthly Archives: March 2013

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The Queen of Hearts

Posted on March 31, 2013 by MuseWriter

I could feel the cracks,

Like I, myself, was some piece of thin glass

So I outwardly attacked, to avoid the self-reflection

But the pane mirrored my hallucinations and I was forced to see

The world tuned topside and turvy,

as if I had dismounted from reality,

and arrived in the psychedelic forest of Wonderland.

The Cheshire beast kept watching, kept smiling,

making me feel uneasy;

I questioned either asking for help or taking a small toke, he offered,

you know, to calm down?

The point on the path seemed like an invulnerable start

to a destination like most

Beginnings, that always continue with stories of journeys for listeners to investigate;

Led by the wordsmith in a hat,

who is guided by deep thoughts that drive him mad,

so he sings

My Grandma Alice warned me of his rants, as if

he and her had

some sort of scandalous past,

or was it me?

There isn’t anything that I wouldn’t believe, being forced to awareness by the Queen;

A devil to worship, as the keeper of thy heart

Dressed in fine linens and flowers that trailed loosely down

through the curls in her hair

Her rosy cheeks, that adorned the most innocent face I had seen yet,

a perfect angelesque figurine

But it’s a face that you could forget; that’s what made it different

Pretty, but not memorable; a disguise of one of the smartest fighters;

Apart of the liars of secrets that are unimaginable.

And the Queen was a pleasant peach,

Giving grandiose gestures of gentility

She offered a life of happiness, one fueled by greed

With everything at hand, to fulfill every need

The Queen, in all of her beauty, made one small mistake

A tiny slip of truth that made me see

As with every shark, they can never hide their teeth;

the most prized part of their being.

The Queen is smart, appealing to the fairy-tales that narrate inside of

each of us

Waking our desires, our wants, and

clouding what we believe;

Shading the light that fuels how we breathe;

Offering immortality for only one simple thing.

A piece of flesh that a god-like creature never needs

She is a romantic of disease,

who feeds off of anything that beats,

even remotely like a heart.

In that moment, when she stood over me, waiting, listening

A slight curve of her stained lips spiked up at the corner,

she assumed that the battle was over;

that the backhanded compliments with

the buried insults escaped me;

I just didn’t rise to the occasion, a few breaths I didn’t want wasted

I looked into the Queen’s eyes and requested my sanction

I knew my life was mine to give but that anyone could be tempted

Baffled, the Queen demanded an explanation,

I think she needed to hear how I could walk away from what she was trying to give me;

As if she had never experienced love,

Or even understood what it means.

Suddenly, my heart wept for the Queen of them all, so blinded by her lust,

that she could never feel any love

As a fiend, addicted to the taste of some cheap drug,

The aphrodisiac of a witch’s poison; a sick sorceress’ juice for the ones who were chosen and fallen.

I could only ever answer, what now sounds like part of a cliche piece of rhetoric:

“There could never be a life for me

without a life of love beating

from the foundation of my heart.”

The Queen seemed to believe, as if that sentence was the only

statement that I had said that contained any meaning

Her eyes wandered off for a few seconds,

Minutes of vulnerable memories and temptations,

as if the Queen was daydreaming;

Thinking of images and past lives without all of the empty feelings.

Scorned, numbed, drained of everything that was once good,

And then I realized that the Queen of Hearts is the justified victim of

life without a love at Home.

 

The Box

Posted on March 27, 2013 by MuseWriter

I see a clear cube, outlined in a cold grey

No color, no warmth, and most importantly, no life

It’s a sleeper’s nightmare,

to be shut off from the colors of the world

To miss the pounding heartbeat reverberating from the ground.

This place, this cage, this figment of my mind

That traps me inside of a transparent coffin,

Where I can only focus on the tiny scratches that scatter the plates that shape my walls together;

is it plexiglass; impenetrable?

Could the mental bullets, shot from the fire of my eyes, even crack the surface?

Is there a magical word,

a clever,

an ironic,

a romantic kind of word,

that opens up our eyes to the skies?

To the gods who shape the boxes to control; to hold

They insert in them, the fears of us all;

To land inside,

to feel yourself die,

your soul cries,

no matter how hard you try,

you still find yourself inside.

And the madness takes over in the words derived from the scattered thoughts of your endless whisperings,

Repetitive words that shape nothing;

that do not create sentences with meaning

But then I see a full page

And I awake from my one god’s dream and discover that the box is gone.

 

A Singer of Love

Posted on March 24, 2013 by MuseWriter

There’s a voice I hear
Crystal clear and pure
A singer of love
A magical soul
And I wonder when,
The day we first met
Are there memories?
One reality?
I am impatient
Tired of waiting
Looking for changes
I keep listening
To uncover you;
Some truth from the man
Or, someone to love

 

Little Black Bird

Posted on March 22, 2013 by MuseWriter

I sat in silence, maybe it was more like contemplation

When I saw a black bird flying all alone

He was a little fellow,

Flying close enough to show off his tricks

Somersaulting onto the telephone wire, making it hop.

It bounced up and down, the wire with the little black bird,

As if he was dancing to some invisible rhythm,

To the song that I hear inside of my head, it always sounds like my past;

Hauntingly: familiar.

An offered dance by a sky flyer; just another wandering soul gathering another stranger’s stories;

and relating to them through the knowledge he seeks.

The black bird peered at me from his perch; I think I heard him call out my name

He waited as if he expected some sort of response, but I wouldn’t

His fiery gaze locked onto my heart, my soul, and I watched him dissect me.

He clawed apart the boxes of displaced unhappy feelings,

Leaving torn pieces of cardboard to shuffle through; trying to decide what to save and what was lost.

The black bird saw in me, in a way that no one else could;

As he ripped out the tender moments that I find so endearing, like the song with the pathetic piano melody,

that always makes me relate to understanding;

Or, some of the various treasured stories I remember with my families;

the little black bird thought he found a few things that were interesting.

His eyes penetrated into the thicket of me

Cutting down limbs and moving all of the scattered debris

He worked until he trimmed the forest, he didn’t bother to burn it down.

I couldn’t hear anything, I could only see the demon above

Hovering, like some symbolic message or meaning

He smiled, his yellow beak opening as I hoped for a moment of truth;

but he just yawned and flew away.

As I watched his shadow fall into the darkness of distance, I remembered one thing;

Your eyes and the story I see.

My only thought; the “thing” to give me life.

I once worshiped you out of ignorance of being blind, so now I speak.

But the little black bird is a sneaky beast,

Making those he touches suffer the life of endless numbness.

A thief worse than the greedy monkeys who rule the world with fake money,

Their bills of Blood bounded together with the rubberband of us all;

a stretch, but we can draw it as a circle of light, life, love, laughter.

Where we can write down each memory one by one,

As a connected group of force to control the greed; they’re weak; we seek.

I want more than what the little black bird left me.

I snapped the band on my wrist and was shocked into remembering it all…

 

Dreamer of My Heart

Posted on March 22, 2013 by MuseWriter

There is enough hate
So, I would rather be kind
Wouldn’t you agree?
It’s not hard to change
Love is, and will always be:
A powerful tool
My heart is open
Unlocked and warm, defrosted;
Welcoming new friends

But what happens when
I can’t hear the music here?
Do you see the truth?
A muse of my own
A wanderer of the sky
A man of all words
The profound message
From a boy alone,
With a crooked smile
Dreamer of my heart
Guardian of an old soul
Save my restless mind

Cicadas

Posted on March 22, 2013 by MuseWriter

I prefer white wine
Out, under a summer’s moon
Mid the cicadas.

 

I Implore You

Posted on March 4, 2013 by MuseWriter

A writer, a shell of desire to devour everything.

A wanderer of the world through self-reflection and theory.

A figure that houses a projector’s beam of information to shine always.

Conversation is only found through the imagination

that has already discovered too much.

When I write, I speak; it makes it harder to find

stimulating motivation

to care and to spread my boundaries;

to be influenced to achieve.

Companions of the art, we communicate

past the normal reasoning of human appreciation.

A trick of light with the pattern of letters;

words that sound better when flexed together.

We live in a wonderland of fools who truly feel what the rest of the world is afraid to.

I “implore” you to be discovered.

 

Sociopathic Romeo

Posted on March 3, 2013 by MuseWriter

There is a saying that “you’ll never die if a writer loves you.”

Do I lose the competition if I can only describe the monster living in you?

The devil in disguise, the master thief that broke into my heart, my soul,

Forced himself in and then locked the door to anyone else.

A sociopathic Romeo, who loved and hated all the same.

Tainted by the beast, I feel branded by evil;

My tattoo of remembrance that has forever changed my life.

The last time that I saw your face, could you possibly claim to be confused?

You couldn’t remember the baseball bat or the bruises you left hell,

I don’t even remember it all.

Except now my first waking thoughts result in terror;

An unmistakable second of adrenaline where my fight responds to hide my instinct to run.

To be chained to memories that influence everything is the worst kind of prison imaginable

To be free…

 

I wish I could see…

Posted on March 2, 2013 by MuseWriter

What lies underneath the words that we say?

We manipulate to understand a percentage of honesty that

hurts, when heard. I think my actions are

textbook,

always owning fear.

We’ve underestimated the size of the world, but then,

you can’t imagine where I’ve been.

I miss the unattainable, the home that saved me;

I wonder if we’ll make it back someday?

I’ve admitted to no one, these thoughts that overcome,

sometimes.

But there will always be impatient

moments of truth,

a second where the light shines a target on you,

and me.

I’ve felt it for awhile but I’m unclear

of what that means,

or who I am?

I feel as if I’ve escaped some reality that haunts me

A double vision, time warp that

competes with my own sensibility.

Do I wage these wars of battle in my head to an empty sector?

I wish I could see what is going on.

 

ILL Will

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All of the stupid things I’ve said
To justify the anger
The fire burns through muscle in my chest
I don’t know how to snuff it out
There’s a fine line between carefree and careless:

I tossed the past in the trash where such horrors belong
White plastic bags buried underneath a few unidentified moments
As an ordinary object, it makes my skin crawl
I can hear it breathing, this sentient fiend preparing omens
Of hate, sending shivers down my spine making me weak
Admitting that friends become enemies when their ILL Will feels justified
Thoughts claw into the layers of your mind unconcerned with the casualty
The poison spilling out feelings sending black thoughts to anyone alive

(and to no one else in particular)
As our united soul suffers to wait for the next silent wave of an attack
Both sides lose, as they always do and the truth remains unknowing
Forces against heart demand to blind emotion
Displacing innocent wishes because it’s easier being angry than being wrong
In my mind, no death is worth this destruction
It’s all the same to me, evil is as evil does and you all know who you are

I am grateful for trash day ❤

Monthly Archives – February 2015

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Monthly Archives: February 2015

 Unrecognizable me

Posted on February 26, 2015 by MuseWriter

Breathing in the mental hunger tasted
By ordinary thoughts created

Memories of what we question

Of what is real and what is a reflection

Or the mental mind stamp of time and place

The pictures drawn to dream

Each moment to catch your attention

Bracing for the next life lesson

Simple happiness simply wasted

The imagination is hated

Painting on a believable face

Unrecognizable me

 

Basement Corridors

Posted on February 18, 2015 by MuseWriter

I descend the staircase
Step after step
Spiraling downward
Inside of a turret of
Stone and mortar

Shadows dance along
Always by my side
Following the way down
As the light slowly dims and
Then it is extinguished

Darkness consumes sight
My friends of confidence
Of light and dark that
Leave me alone in my silence
Without the echoing cadence
Step after step
Inside of the basement corridors
Of my mind

 

Empty Eyes

Posted on February 15, 2015 by MuseWriter

I woke up from a dream and I lost control
I rubbed the dirt from my eyes
And I see nothing but the night below
And I hear the wind on all sides

I watch the hands on the clock
I slip through the sands of time
Visions blurred, unspoken words
Have I lost my mind?

I find myself so alone
Starring back at everyone
Bodies pass me by
With their empty eyes

I walk with you between these old bones
Among, the crooked rows, of lost and broken stones
Black phantoms marching, their footsteps pass me by
And I hear nothing but the sounds of snow
I watch the spirits rise

 

Blue chair

Posted on February 12, 2015 by MuseWriter

The floors are white
annoyingly so
Shining the reflection
of light
Into my eyes

The chair is blue
Rusted with age
Probably picked up
on the side of the road
Or given away

Soles of shoe
connect to the
Slippery surface
mirroring the ceiling
Disbelieving

Sitting down upon
seat in middle of room
With the glittery floor
and single object of
Furniture

Blue chair scuffs white
floor and rings out an
Echoing scream of
metal scraping tile until
Silence

 

*insert title* II

Posted on February 2, 2015 by MuseWriter

Fish
My back is enveloped within the trenches of my mattress
Body’s tensions easing into this nightly intimacy of comfort and safety
Submerged underneath layers upon layers of dreamt wishes
I sink into the bottom as a sleeping fish on the ocean floor
Wishing everyone above Goodnight

Greatest Masterpiece
There are acceptable phrases to begin particular statements,
The remembered hardships become the sentences that wrench out of gut;
the blood and the intestines pouring out of stomach into a heaping pile of life
Symbolizing the jagged wound opening human flesh to kill all of the hidden spaces of ideas
Metaphorically dying as a sacrifice to the Greatest Masterpiece

Puppet Strings
She glances left with her bright white eyes and painted lips.
Now head turns to accentuate perspective.
Left arm moves up, next the right.
Now eyes face forward.
Mouth chatters as she walks.
Left foot steps, right steps next.
Hands lift and sway.
Now head tilts up, rosy cheeks round.
Her mouth is open wide but no one can hear a sound.
Now head looks down and her eyes are hidden.
Puppet strings can only do so much

 

There’s never a face…

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There’s never a face

Only a blurred mask of features

Cloaked in all black

Probing, seeking, killing

We never learned how to believe

Shoved into this state of certainty

With acceptance in grieving

As if being alone is freeing

I say fuck that

The rooms are familiar

They haunt me in my sleep

Saving the night for disaster

As the psycho beast creeps

This time I’ll be waiting

Not running through the maze

In this life of creation

We own the hours of the day

 

I am grateful for staying awake ❤

Corporate Stagnation

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But first a little side note, if anyone could spare a little extra money to help a wonderful kid, it would be greatly appreciated. Below is an excerpt from his mom from their gofundme.com page. It’s not every day that we can actually do** something to make a difference but in this case, every little bit helps. Cancer is a fucking bastard.

https://www.gofundme.com/25hnup6k

8630287_1454478973.4105_updates

“My dear, sweet son Otto has been diagnosed with Stage IV Neuroblastoma. He just turned five last month, and became ill suddenly just a few weeks ago. The last month has been a whirlwind of testing, doctor’s appointments, and specialists. We were admitted to the hospital when his symptoms and his pain became too severe, and finally received our devastating diagnosis after several days.
As his mother, I cannot bear to leave him right now. My only baby is afraid, angry, and in so much pain. I don’t know any mom who would feel differently.
Unfortunately, taking care of my boy means that I can’t work. While FMLA will protect my job so that I can return there when this is all over, I am the breadwinner for our little family. We just bought our first home in October and would despair to lose it and have nowhere to bring Otto home to when the time comes. My paid time off allotment will already run out as of this Friday, barely a week after we brought him in.
We need your help to cover his medical expenses as well as funds to keep us going so that we can continue to support him here in the hospital. We have already received such an outpouring of love and support, but we still have such a very long way to go. I know our goal seems like such a large number, but every small amount will help us.
Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”

 

Corporate Stagnation

The words disappear beneath the shadow of hands

Ink-stained knuckles curve into fists of anxious frustration

I hide this self only as much as I can pretend

With the challenge of mind led by the weight of suppression

 

The truth is acknowledged by those in its possession

Absent in substance, despite how it’s being written

We accept in ignorance what we abandon in submission

Perverting blind desolation while claiming “It is I who apprehends!”

 

Well, who I am to desecrate this movement?

As I sit here losing hope from the promise of creation

Devising rhyming riddles of expectations to offend

Only to deaden the void from the torment of corporate stagnation

 

The page glares in indignant accusation

With a delighted radiancy desirous to transcend

I always succumb to suffer its carnal predation

As it is, who cares? we all die in the end

 

I am grateful for friends and family ❤

Monthly Archives: February 2013

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The Norm

Posted on February 25, 2013 by MuseWriter

I shrugged in sarcastic narcissism,
Of course everyone got the joke.
As a creature molded to analyze
I constantly try to self-replicate myself into the norm;
It’s safe, a nice comforting cocoon, the norm.
An obvious cliche stepford kitchen recipe
But the norm is always actualized from diversity
The new beginnings that created multiple personalities
Stages of metamorphosis to write down in history.
I am a masked face to pretend to relate.

 

To Be Happy

Posted on February 24, 2013 by MuseWriter

It’s hard to begin to express the sheer frustration and depression I fall into when you leave. Although your body lingers, your mind has lost it’s way. The pathway to self-destruction on speed. A numbing embrace and a glimpse of a light, so you use. To keep a handy vial on hand, mimics the guidance of friends, pushing you away from everyone. And you do. Your self-confidence issues are portrayed, by the mean words you say, when you’re not you. How important do I weigh in the narcissistic world playing in everyone’s heads? What would you say if you were given the chance to conquer it all or, to be happy?

 

Pointless

Posted on February 22, 2013 by MuseWriter

As a cockroach, the ugliest parasite of them all

I am free, but pointless

Black antennas and beady eyes, they consume

The world is on fire but the bug always prevails

A grim reaper of destruction and chaos,

What have I become?

A monster of death?

A watcher, a listener, a schizophrenic creeper?

To be an addict’s last witness and give out his dying wish

We all collectedly suffer;

To always be alone and afraid…

 

My Miniature Vault

Posted on February 13, 2013 by MuseWriter

My miniature vault, a glass storage jar, sits on the table

In its own little spot, next to the monte carlo cigar box

As an object of character, it represents my freedom, my rebellion, my sweet descent

My little piece of sanity that keeps me contained

A late bloomer to the bud of the most contentious flower

I hear every poet’s favorite color is green

I hope so…

Posted on February 12, 2013 by MuseWriter

The walls are pounding,
Quick, loud beats that mimic my heart.
The room is always illuminated by the tv,
A reality of fiction and demons of temptation.
Where is our salvation?
Where is the harmony of perfection and ecstatic bliss?
They say that everything happens for a reason,
But I won’t stay here pretending that I don’t notice.
Am I a threat, a calculable mission,
A potential cause for confusion of emotion?
Oh God, I hope so.

Blood

Posted on February 11, 2013 by MuseWriter

I looked down, red caught in my peripheral vision

A few seconds passed of shocked contemplation

Mixed within the natural expression, was blood

 

A Dreamer (part 2)

Posted on February 9, 2013 by MuseWriter

A dreamer is

the medium to life that puzzles together

the miracles of the Universe.

He isn’t godly or holy;

He isn’t a wizarding character of fantasy.

A dreamer is a creator of hope;

and with hope,

life begins…

 

February 9, 2013

Posted on February 9, 2013 by MuseWriter

Softly, somewhere, a piano sings

A whispering tune that I have never heard

It’s my hope, the sound of the keys is encouraging

My own fairy tale, just without the violation of words

And I find myself remembering, or at least believing, that

I could remember the place of collective self and happiness

It’s without Greed, the killer, the monster that will devour the world;

A plague that ravages you from the inside.

Legs shaking under the steering wheel, I hide it

Blue lights flashing in the rear-view mirror, an intrusion of the night, they hurt my eyes

A confusing warning, a paranoia sponging up the awkwardness

In that moment, I flash-forwarded to a million scenarios of what was in my pocket

The system is corrupt and weak

But we still believe it

We are abstract clouds that wander through the fields, their sheep

Somehow lost in this crossfire of a country’s desire to everything

 

Hoarder of Memories

Posted on February 7, 2013 by MuseWriter

There once lived a man who claimed he could fly.
He said he was a true pilot of practiced skill,
Also known as the difficult type, but he was loved by us all;
and their colorful words and phrases depicted him well.
This man loved, as so many romantic men do,
Like his whole body was roasting on fire.
The acrid smoke clouding his judgement;
The heavy heat making living unbearable.
A gift was offered, it was long ago;
A gift that everyone has forgotten,
But the man who flies can see the world,
He’s become a hoarder of memories that don’t belong to him.
He suffers now, afraid of what he might remember;
Because she doesn’t.
How many lives are allowed in one sense of time?
If there is a favorable notion why you hold them so close,
Then, it’s okay to divulge the available details.

 

Butterflies

Posted on February 4, 2013 by MuseWriter

Butterflies, how do they fly?

Little velvet wings that shine like stained glass in the sun.

Such a delicate life;

An explorer of illusion made for beauty and wonder.

 

The Monarch of the tree paints it a fiery orange;

Orange has always been my favorite color.

The battle for the tree is illuminating;

It’s so remarkable, this insignificant magnificence of a whisper

 

Sights

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Indian Fashion 4

Image: http://roarnews.co.uk/wordpress/?attachment_id=6384

I peered through the hole in the fabric

The scene encircled by the nearest seller’s striped

canvass flapping in the breeze

I watched her as she freely browsed

Completely unaware of me in my hiding spot

There’s nothing seemingly important to notice

Just a minute of awareness in a different story

I inhaled the market to retain its look

To remember the surroundings as much as her

The feelings in question leave one hesitant

When the pictures seem flat in the imagination

With their nonexistent examples of how “we” live

But what happens when the sights shift and rearrange;

to become the sole witness to the many forks of reality?

Like a kid watching TV with his face plastered against the screen

The moments pass and then the darkness dissolves…

Is that even possible?

 

I am grateful for 2015. I hope everyone has a safe and happy transition into the New Year. ❤

Who am I?

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Busy days lead into eventful nights of

Bright moments in the dark that leave the brain

mindless and numb to the rationality of light

You’ve been wearing all black while tempting the colors within

to paint the first mark of the picture

With haphazard jagged brush strokes crisscrossing from

one side of the page to the other

A depiction of dreams and the feelings

one experiences while asleep

I dress you up in my careless thoughts to

wake up in the morning and wonder,

Who am I?

 

I am grateful for sleep ❤