We all look up to the same sun. To the same moon we confide. We all look at them the same... Hoping for the light of day... Wishing for peace at night.
Unfortunately... It seems that they are not just. For their light is selective. It is not available to those heavily shrouded in the dark, drenched in tears. It seemingly favour those who'd shamelessly croon for their boon. Miscreants who shirk their responsibilities and fears.
I beg you... Guardian of day and sentinel in twilight. May your arms be kind and fastidious. May your reach be deliberate, purposeful and extensive. Find those who cry but without voice. Cradle those who've made decisions without the luxury of choice. Shed some love so they could see past their laboured breaths in mud. Raise them to their feet so that they might have a fighting chance to live.
May not always be poetry *But Poetry's always reality
Just a reaction thought to a trending poem... I don't believe in first draft and second in poetry... to me that first thought I pen is the poem... what you afford to note... Just my opinion
Can't change her So I'm turning me into the lad who can deal with the ripples she brings... I'm adopting to the echoes along her wave length... For she's my weakness and strength Each time I want to fly she gives me wings I soar in her arms, she's my sky I'm entangled in her charms She's my world and beyond I can't even tell why!!
I peer at the world And all I see is possible impossibilities fictional realities counterfeit originality impotent functionality locomotive staticity, and rigid elasticity beside Beastie humanity...*
I look at the world and all there's are peaceful wars Less Mores widely locked doors criminal laws a stinking rose and fragrant "choos" I look at the world and sadly I see all those... I even see stepped on toes on sand-less shores...
Catastrophe runs in my mind, Desperate on my fragile soul, Dare not I look behind, Unto my long lost role. Now, banging on the sheer white wall, Face with the truth of my denial, Looking through the empty halls, Smiling, to forgotten dials.