Yan F 2d
Have you ever felt
Like you've gone too far to stop?
What if you're falling?

When you fall deeply
Quickly descending so bleak
Would you climb back up?

Have you ever tried
Climbing atop a mountain
And then miss the ground?

When you are falling
It's not the fall that kills you
It's the sudden stop.
Blanche is the man protagonist of the play A Streetcar Named Desire and a woman who lived in her delusions of reality. She continued to fall deeper into her dreams until a taste of reality made her snap to insanity in the end--- It was her fantasies that kept her sane.

Blanche is also close to the Blanca or Blancé meaning white or pure, basically empty.
Yan F 5d
Winter was waiting
For a cry of hail
Instead all she heard
Was a hopeless wail

She screamed, she shouted
Yet to no avail
"Spring has fell", she said,
"This whole year shall fail"
She should have been as cold as ice.
Instead she simply melted----
Without snow, there's only rainfall, just cries.
There won't be any spring...
There won't be any sun to rise.
Yan F 5d
I am a figment of your imagination,
I am your living lie.

Listless little lucid nightmares,
Lost and loveless, I’m here to watch you cry.

Realise your butterfly dream,
Here we’re sinking deep...
Deeper,
Lower,
Forever diving slower…

All before we fall asleep.

Step one, cross your fingers,
Then close your eyes,

Feel the pain, it lingers,
And then it starts to rise.

But before you do,
Just make a wish,
Take a deep breath,
And we'll make it come true.

Tell me your darkest secret,
That's step two,
Show me your rage and your tempest,
So I can take a step closer to you,

Nearer and nearer,
Never farther,
Just laying low,
Another step taken slow,

Step three here we make it faster,
Flashing lights burning brighter,
Careless whispers from the radio,
Playing harder and louder,

It's blinding,
It's deafening,
But they don't matter.

This is your butterfly dream,
And it’s my worst nightmare,

When I’m right here fleeting,
I’m yours to shatter and tear.

I am your butterfly dream,
My chapped wings can’t break free,

And tonight your smile is all I see,
It’s my poison and your kiss is killing me.

Step four when you clench your fist,
Baby, just bite your wet lips,
Cause just as the night is nearly over,
Listen to what remains of my strength,

Your butterfly can barely even hover.

So step five start to cry,
Water my heart you’ve salted dry,
Prepare to say your worst goodbye,

It’s time to let go of your make believe lover.

Give freedom your crippled butterfly.

And just watch me up high,
Higher and higher,
Quickly going slower…
Up, up, up,
Stop.
And then I’ll see your tears just shower,
And I’d begin to go lower,
Up, up, up, stop.
Down…
Down, down, down,
And in your frown I’d drop.

I’m your loveless little lucid lie,
Your butterfly dream,
And I’m here to stay another night—

Until the next time I see you cry.
2017-November--- Requested by a close cousin
Title by Lonely Poet

Butterfly effect(A dramatisation on the Uncertainty Principle) -The wind created by a flap of a butterfly's wings can generate tornadoes at the other end of the world.
Yan F 4d
The moon asked him a question
In which the sun replied...

"Why are you staring at me?"
Said the moon.

"He's looking at me.
You just stole my light."

And sun took back her brightness
So he then tripped and fell
In the black of the night.

"Why can't you still look at me?"
Asked the Sun.
And he answered:

"You're just far too bright."
The curtain rises
On the morning wind
There is something gentle
Something veiled about it all

Lets wave goodbye - she says
To the meaningful things
Not much brightness here today
Nothing good about it all

A certain control is being exercised
Conceits being offered, the Truth ignored

She is a mirror shining
In a chromium room
Almost like a dream
Autumn in the Spring

How soft the mist today - she says
Damp in the eyes like gloom
Turning to slate all that is green
Something cloying and coiling

Lines are being drawn, where there was Love
Sounds are stilled, struggling and slurred

Almost like a dream
Has thrown off its disguise
Almost like meaning
Is a footnote no more

The oldest of reasons - she says
There can be no surprise
Autumn in the Spring today
Is a thing to endure
Dan White Jan 12
Slowly I walk towards the wall. Someday, somehow, some say, we will all face him. He is not me, not like the one I imagined but instead a reflection of a fragment that has disappeared ages ago. And I know one thing for sure: long before my first and last breath, everyone is here.

A last stand… Beckoning.

A blurry scene collapses like a rose’s thorn crushed by a hammer, and it’s heaven. Fresh air breezes throughout the field like a thousand winters summoned  in a hot air balloon; one pop, and it might burst.

Instead it dies.

Blackness fades into nothingness as light bends darkness when desperateness serves greatness. A tiny yet almost invisible terrifying spot of delight. All will come true and limits are met only when reaching the neverending centre again and again.

The concentric circle.

Never have I felt this much euphoria as time feels decay; the process of giving and taking, for eternity. And never have I dreamed so much desolate fueled nightmares until tonight. A night to remember for the ages as ages tend to burn with backwards conspiracy.

A feast for the new millennium.

Tragic meets company as destiny embraces chaos when a tall figure stands opposed to a small ocean vessel. Waving fiercely, with strong arms. Screaming against the absence of light. But not tonight, not anymore. Maybe never, yet always.

The destined traveller.

Always wandering but never here as the room grows from specs to pyramids; standing great and longing connate justice. Ever towering, never to look down, yet always pondering. In spite of desire, thirst is not quenched, however the stalactite still grows slowly.

The remains.

Nothing is sacred and with the fidelity of strangeness interwoven its frontier is bubbling with the force of insecurity; the final pillar of a marble treehouse. Leaning. Never to leave, never to stay, but always here.

Forever.
A allegorical stream of consciousness concerning different aspects of (my) life.
Emma K R Feb 24
Ark
Her tears were rainbows,
a rainfall commitment to herself.

Never would she let that pain
again bring tears to her eyes.

Tomorrow was an olive branch --
a beacon of hope.

She'd long chased a raven --
a deliverer of despair.

So she resolved to become a dove,
to be strong in resolve
and a bearer of hope.
You know I don't mind be-ing alone,
it's just the times when I'm at home.


You know I don't mind be-ing alone,
it's just the times when I'm at home.


Fall again so you are gone,
here I am in lonely song.
You walked away, watched you go,
and here I am now all alone.
...all alone...
All Alone!
...all alone.

You know I don't mind be-ing alone,
it's just the times when I'm at home.


You know I don't mind be-ing alone,
it's just the times when I'm at home.


Skippin' rocks out at the lake,
you serious we need a break?
No I don't mind be-ing alone,
Drunk again I'm on the phone.

You know I don't mind be-ing alone,
it's just the times when I'm at home.


You know I don't mind be-ing alone,
it's just the times when I'm at home.


Walking away I screamed out loud,
You calmer now, say it's allowed.
Firmament a Serpent, stand my ground,
here drunk again you're not around.

..not around.
around.

You know I don't mind be-ing alone,
it's just the times when I'm at home.


You know I don't mind be-ing alone,
it's just the times when I'm at home.


...all alone...
All Alone!
...all alone.

Alone
The Sun in her many incarnations with the Earth left behind. Heaven is a serpent who leaves us...me and the Sun is the enemy. No light, just darkness, no light all darkness...there is no light in heaven when seen from Earth. Stars are teasing, cheating the dark.
His fight was not against the horn
The forlorn sights were fenced by scorn
Finito’s might was just as bold
As told by those whose pity sold
The bull saw red as did the crowd
For now, its head lowered-plowed
A proud escape brought louder cheers
Though sheered his cape, he had no fear
He cleared the charge of raging bull
Fooled, enlarged, by danger’s pull
Finito aims to miss by slight
Not flight, remiss a witnessed plight
Taurador’s pride is what’s for show;
To know his crowd and make his blows
So grows Finito’s need to kill
Fulfill their greed for fighter’s skill
And this is how a blow endured
Secured Finito’s place in lore
For it was not as all had seen
Obscene was not a man gored clean
Finito’s fatal wound begot
Not by horn but by prideful wrought
Brought by a kick, bled internal
Finito fought the beast’s infernal
The bull slain first, had died with grace
In place thereafter the slayer braced
Disgraced, he knew of what’s to come
Finito’s life was almost done
As his story survives his deeds
It sounds a bell which tolls for thee
The story of Finito was told by the wife of Pablo, named Pilar.
I. The Fireflies



There was once

a time when the fireflies

had made a home out of me.



One evening,

long after the sun

had surrendered itself

to the hazed horizon

and the pregnant moon,

they had come to my window,

golden freckles of light

twinkling playfully

in the dimness.



What exactly

prompted their gravitation

towards me,

I will never be entirely certain of,

though I have my theories.



Maybe it was the

warm glass of milk

sitting on my bedside table.

Or maybe

they had simply mistaken

the peppers of stardust

laced atop my eyelashes

for their own kin.



Or perhaps–

and most likely–

it had been

the murmur of poetry

on my lips:



…watch how they dart about the trees

in whimsical harmony,

how they rise up towards the dark sky

in the hopes that, someday,

they too will become one with

the constellations that blink

so brilliantly in the blackness.



Yes,

Perhaps this what had captivated them so–

a homage to the fireflies themselves.

Perhaps this is

why they had drifted towards me,

as if in some fanciful trance,

weightless as paper lanterns.



And how sweet they were

as they twirled about the ringlets

in my hair and

nuzzled their small frames

against my cheek

and fingertips.



How sweet they were–

that is,

until the bees came.



II. The Bees



They made lightning bugs

of my fireflies,

whose soft luminescence was replaced

with a violent stream of sparks,

one resembling something close

to the bursting of a fluorescent bulb



And so came the lightning,

the firefly’s only defence against

the approaching swarm,

their only ammunition

in the impending battle:

fireflies versus

bees,

both in want

of my nectared

marrow.



But the lightning

was no reasonable match

for the bees,

with their

large, gelatinous figures

and the persistence

of their stabbings;

annihilated were the fireflies,

carcasses crumbling to soot,

their innards,

still glowing,

smeared across my collarbone

like war paint.



Victorious and

humming menacingly,

the bees then crawled

into my ears

and my mouth

where they proceeded

to feast on their spoils and plunders:

the honey,

that they so cruelly

stole from me.



And once the honey was gone,

so were the bees,

bellies full,

antennae sticky,

their use for me

fulfilled and therefore

discarded.



III. The Spiders



The final hosts

were drawn to

what the bees had left behind:

the inconsolable emptiness

of my being,



They marked their territory

with cobwebs–

spun carelessly

into my arteries

and windpipe.



Breath dwindling and

heartbeat diminishing

I tried to remember the fireflies–

the light–

as the arachnophobia

threatened to devour me.
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