This is the dream we call living
    With the settings of a world of wonders and amazing creations,
    With the backdrop of a field of blooming sunflowers,
    With the scene of a million people trampling over them,
    With the plot of experiencing other people,
    With the ****** of that which we call “love,”
    With the fallout of our own lives, into nothingness.

This is the dream we call dreaming
    Let there be the settings of a world of canvas,
    Let there be the backdrop of the whiteness of an unborn soul,
    Let there be the scene of the singular person, existing and not existing,
    Let there be the plot of painting this canvas, stretching infinitely,
    Let there be the ****** of finding the other person, drawing and not drawing,
    Let there be the fallout of that which we call “love,” into totality.

This is the dream we call dreaming of dreaming
    See the settings of a kaleidoscope,
    See the backdrop of the abstraction of one’s soul,
    See the scene of the world, changing twice in one time,
    See the plot of the change, that which the world creates,
    See the ****** of finding the collapse of colors,
    See the fallout of the collapse of dreams.

It begins slowly
One, two, three, four...
Then it grows to an uncountable infinity

For who weeps in this gloomy day?
The clouds ever lasting yet
For whom wept the glorious night?

It leaves slowly
One, two, three, four...
Then it is all gone, leaving behind puddles

I began from a cold, dark place.
With no eyes to see, no scale to feel,
No form to move, no voice to scream.
What a beginning to a story.

And then there was light, chasing away the black abyss.
And I saw five hundred more of my siblings.
And I basked myself in the glory of living.
And I saw something coming.

We ran in fear, each fish for themselves.
"What cruel world we live in!"
From the very start, I cry these words.
"That we must live in constant fear!"

Struggling and trembling I began to learn.
The untold ways of life.
One more day I live, picking food off the floor.
Not yet dead but barely living.

Until the day came, and I was stranded.
The water retreating,
As quickly as it delivered me.
Unto unknowable shores.

I lie there beneath the unforgiving sky,
Pondering what remained of my days.
All that I've familiarized with,
Has hid themselves away from my sight.

Foaming and dying here, a foreign land,
Not knowing any knowable thing yet.
Grieving and crying here, a waterless land,
Not having any limbs to walk with yet.

Words sometimes don't make much sense,
But linguistics is not my field of study.
Vividly and unusually. Picturesque.
Remember to stop drinking coffee and take a look around.

Beaming, effulgent,
Glaring, blinding.
From which lens burst that overwhelming light,
Showing the world all that is made of colors?

Poetry is like art, except there is no paint...
Poetry is like sports, except there is no sweat...
Poetry is like chatting, except there is no sound...
Poetry is like learning, except there is no teacher...

No paint is necessary but the words we speak.
No sweat is necessary but the frustrations of a muted mind.
No sound is necessary but the mimicry of expressions.
No teacher is necessary but the mind, willing to listen evermore.

>                   Crashing,                                  wavering.
            ­  Singing         some                     emptied          song,
       Tossing away          the                worthless              thing.
Amidst the endless                     storms of this sea.
Where no cries could be        heard. Not unlike those,
chambers of madness. Where no song can reach; no wave can crash; no will to seize; no life can live; no dream to foam. And all reduce to

an empty song.