†† Dead Roses in her hair,††
Same color as her steady blush;
On her tiptoes, arms extended to be closer to the world, high & wonder less.
She liked moments but loved when they were like this.
Though the rose decayed the thorns remained ever prickly,
Reminding her that she still felt pain.
With a crooked, silken smile and an incentive the rose will be 'live.
Existing, creating, remaining
In constant correspondence with
Fluorescent phantoms stalking
hypnogogic images of
Past selves spilled upon
A marble plane universe.
Fractals of shattered ether,
to touch an all,
Indescribably content with systematically
Rapidly engaging in disengagement.
Division of conscious accessibility,
Lately less than half.
Mundane introductions to despairs,
The residual stillness.
Folk compilations of concepts fabricating
Inquiries into legends of incentive for
Existing, creating, remaining.
Intend for miracles
end up in tears
Abated of feelings
trials lasting years
I know I simmer
when I slightly stir
But add more flavor
The allspice, life
and try to concur
In its essence
Relaxed to dine
and drink fine red wine
exceptional and approachable
with a tight velvety dress
You know you find
uncovered if you try
true lasting impressions
far far far from dry
Keep the youth medicated & sedated, then wonder why the literacy rate is doomed to decline. Birth us on a pedestal, then wonder why we have no incentive to climb. Build us from a violent genocide, then wonder why we've got guns pressed under our tongues. Kneel us before the clergy. Strangle us with your rosaries. Brand psalms into our wrists & make laws to control her ovaries. Value groupthink over independent thought & induce aversion to curiosity. Hang us between your revolving doors & shoot nationalism into our veins... Then wonder why we're so addicted to drowning our insides.
I always thought that I was a person that just kept on dreaming, without realising them.
In your head the world looks different, you look different.
Things are never what they look like and the theories we make up, even those of a child, are our incentive to move on.
On our way, people constantly tell us to go straight, over the trampled, degenerated grass, that creates a path in the endless obscure field.
Unknowing where it will take us, or who walked it, we begin our journey.
Because if ''they'' knew how to reach the end alive, than we'll survive it too, won't we?
i witnessed to myself
about the importance of an education
and then promptly
as i sipped my perfectly
i shrugged off every responsibility
the ache in my head
to do nothing
till death do us part.
over the large
that i'll most likely
amount to nothing
(nothing is still something)
no one really pays you
to write creatively
as my father so graciously