Suppose I was a gardener, In a field of dreams. I would **** the earth And plant innumerable seeds. Of passion, of faith, hope and belief To sow happiness, to offer relief. The corporeal, and the intangible Working in tandem, coupled together. The offer of body and soul With the goal of a Brighter tomorrow
i am terrible at explaining this feeling. the feeling of not being enough. The feeling of sacrificing life's gold to obtain silver. they say human relationships are pure but what's pure in exchanges which only speak of dreams and desires? what's so pure in exchanges of commodities between souls when the essence of love evaporates in the potency of moonsoon. i think i have done enough for everyone. the emptiness in me is nothing but an anthem of loss of meaning in the miniscule negotiations of life's key moments. and the only way to escape losing my essence is to stop injuring myself and healing the same scars. all over again.
an observation into the innocuous piety of my life.
Failure a ruthless painter splatters my soul with its tainted brush, Staining the fabric of my hope, Shredding the canva of my ambition. Eroding the castle/ fortress of my desires, it washes away the footprints of progress. I am left stranded in bottomless sea of missed opportunity collecting the shattered pieces of my expectations.
father said you should only dream with open eyes to see clearly the rays of lies dreams are only made for sleep not for day nor light to seek keep your dreams beside your bed and a candle lit inside your head keep it there and keep it where vision withers for no light redeems or day delivers your dreams once your dead