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While daydreams reverberate
Off of blockade brains
We sit in wooden cages
Our painted faces
Plastered in melting windows

We watch pale skies
While waiting for rain
Or maybe the atom's apple
To break the monotony
Of thinking about the end

Allesha Eman Jul 5
You soak your sun-dried dreams in rose water
And bead them onto strings of premature promises
You once made to your naïve self,
Despite your love for dreaming
The summer moon’s quick departure
Leaves you stranded at train stations
And you make your way back through fields
Of distant memories
Looking for ways to fall asleep
k e i Jun 20
a concept:
you in a tux and me in a red dress that reaches my toes. we sit on the hood of your 50’s beat up chevy, drinking cheap wine straight from the bottle, speaking in metaphors and hyperboles. we kiss ‘til our senses burn and no sooner would it be one of those nights we try to stuff in the back of our heads even when we both know better than keeping cool in our own state of denial;

“for without blinking an eye the moon has seen it all.”
MysteryBear Jun 9
Too tempting is it to jump into the abyss of numbed feelings to save yourself from getting hurt again.
Repeating the same mantra, “Keep your heart open . It’s okay to feel the pain.”
This song is getting old, I try to keep myself busy. But from time to time, I daydream of my home back in the abyss.
Clive Blake May 12
A child’s daydreams;
They come, then, go,
They crystalize,
Then melt, like snow.

The young child plays;
She knows no troubles,
Her daydreams drift,
Like clouds of bubbles.

Her life, so simple now,
No stress, no strife,
May this remain so,
The whole of her life.
She lives in my daydreams,
stealing me from reality,
from the one that looks like her,
that is her.
All I think about is being with  her
Juliana Apr 27
Strands of brown scattered
every which way, my hand
runs through my hair again,
my breathing deep.

Papers seemingly scattered,
a groove permanently centered
on the futon so deep I could fall,

Until my dreams
become my reality,
the words in my brain
painted onto the landscape,
my characters as real
as actors, newfound friends.

A knock on the door
snaps my thoughts back
into a file folder,
circled back to when
needed the least.

Who’s there?

The door opens,
breath catching
like a wish upon a star,
a man dressed
in a black suit standing
in the doorframe.

I’ve seen him before,
not once, but once
for every season,
a repeating figure
as familiar as my heart,
as unique as days
in the calendar.

I call his name,
the version matching summer
when the warm rays
fated to blind his brother,
when his sister destined
to lay across the asphalt,
her last breath a song,
voice fluttering,
soaring among the eagles.

The man says hello,
I ask if he’s real.

He assures me he is,
he has escaped the confines
of a page, allowed to dance
in the breeze, stroll in the sun,
find his way to me.

I ask of his family, his girl.
He answers, matching
to my memory meticulously.
His turn to present a question to me.

An offer to accompany
him to his world.
To feel the safety
of those pages,
the serif text wrap
around my body,
my organs spilling
onto the page
adding to it all
of my being.

I could find my home.
Be with those I love.

I answer him.
Pretend the formatting saved (first 'deeper' should be indented once, second 'deeper' indented twice).
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