canvas empty, ready to be filled
brush in hand, ready to fill
deft strokes flew across the clean canvas;
to fill the empty with the painter’s heart
yet in doing so, the ugly strokes that taint the white
only create an emptier canvas
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC
I thank thee
for granting us with memory
for allowing us to remember
things so precious
I thank thee
for letting us relive
our joys, our sorrows
our loves, our pains
And though thou warps
And changes and transforms
And weakens and fades
And dies
I thank thee, o memory
for thy transience
for giving us the bittersweet beauty
of thy temporal gaze
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 3:31 PM UTC
It took me so long
To find the way out
Only to be pushed in once more
By my own foolishness
It took you so long
To guide me back out
Only for me to fall back in
Of my own volition
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
We three dancers
Dance to the crowd
A well-rehearsed farce
A perfected tapestry
The show comes to an end
And all the blind mice clap.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 1:57 AM UTC
Powerlessness
Helplessness
All I can do is cry
Wrapped up in a web of lies
Are they mine
Or are they yours?
I don’t know.
And I don’t care.
I cry
Once again
My crimson tears
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
Caught in a mirage
Never ending, never ceasing
Parched throat thirsting
For that sweet illusion
A silent empty vessel
Adrift in the ocean of dreams
Taken back to the past
Away from these hellish scenes
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 4:37 AM UTC
The poet writes
with no pause and no rest
in the vain hopes to finish
his works in due time
as he stares at his canvas which was
a sheet of innocence
now tainted by shades of black
that has since lost the ability
to reflect that which is inside
leading him to question how
he fell this far
to writing to cater to
a crowd of sheep
praying for a chance for himself
to finally,
breathe
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 1:44 AM UTC
He was closed
In a gray concrete cage
Scents of smoke and metal wafted
Mixing with the aroma of stale bread
Drifting from the nearby bakery
Gazing around he tries to find
Something human
Something alive
But finds naught but mannequins
Cleverly crafted to be a perfect mimicry
But behind those windows lay no soul
Even he felt as if he was losing himself
He turned to those windows that still reflected
Who he was
Seeing his soul in the distance
But he cannot he must not he should not
Or perhaps he dare not
No longer however as he steeled himself
Leaping out to regain what he had lost
To bring a full stop to the agony
But alas all he found
At the end of the road
Was a
Comma
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 1:05 PM UTC
Plastic perfection
Man-made nature
A constructed reality
My dreaded heaven
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 12:36 PM UTC
Insanity
What exactly is insanity?
The state of mental decline?
Then the lucidity of the insane
Must be some sort of twisted miracle.
Perhaps insanity means nought more
Than being the odd one out in a hive mind.
Being sane in a sanatorium then
Is he sane or insane?
Perhaps the very thought that he may be sane
Is proof of insanity
We may never know
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 12:36 PM UTC