I got it
I finally understand
it was never you that I wanted
the drama that you presented
some would even call it a plot conflict
You see, I'm a writer
I see the world through different eyes
eyes that sometimes aren't mine
my mind is taken over
and my thoughts, they stray
I'm a hopeless romantic
but that doesn't equate
I've never before been so afraid
of my own self
of the words that could come out
because I understand,
and now I have to learn to separate
the who I am from the who I create
it's exhausting being me every single day
the fantasies pop up and leave me dismayed
always in a sour mood, unsure of who I am
of the choices I've made
a line has been drawn and I'm sticking too it
I know that these thoughts aren't me, but lighter fluid
and it's me that holds the power
the lighter only a tool
passion is fire
my inspiration is crude
A boy may clement
uniquely this role
with unequivocal height
he only instill insight
and achieve with a hardship
his resolve short of abandonment
while remiss with quiver
to shake, shiver and quake
always trim the alabaster
with an ecumenical salve.
Soul found in this world of old,
May not be what you have been told.
To find a soul,
As old as mine, would be a journey.
A mission finished in time,
While running on faded blurred out lines.
To find a soul,
as old as mine.
I would have to run the lines of time,
to see the soul, waiting there.
Waiting there for me.
Christmas has come ,
another year has passed and
another is yet to come ,
things have been lost and
things are yet to come but , who knows
what in life will be done .
5 days you have to pack your past ,
leave all the burdens and sorrows
and yet a different light cast .
Pray a little not to God but yourself
for you deserve not the better but the best ,
Believe and have a little faith in life
and eventually everything will fall in line.
For more poems reach out to Instagram @thehiddenwriter
the curves of your neck, your eyelashes that flutter.
the brown in your eyes, the barely there pink of your chapped lips.
the bumps on your cheeks, the smoothness of your hands.
the width of your shoulders, the space between your eyebrows.
the way your shadow looks as the spotlight's on you.
van gogh, da vinci, munch, and michelangelo,
they'd all be ashamed,
for they could never make art in the form of you.