climbing a mountain and coming back down picking up pace after a long break dancing and running out of breath waiting for eyes to adjust to the darkness getting blinded by the light a sore throat after yelling bruised skin after impact sweating in heat shivering in cold a hot burning fever swelling flesh a dizzy spell and a healing process
Dearest up in the sky above, I am begging why do we pretend like we have choice? Red or yellow? Boy or girl? To listen or to speak You have made this known. In Your bounty is cement and the capacity to set things in stone. It is not in our hands but we grasp on to these insignificant rulings and comforts that make impressions or give one that we are in control before this unforgiving soil swallows us whole. It is preordained bound beyond fears that the world does not stop for our silly human tears. We are the vassals of fate so we are made aware. Yet we still breathe as though we will forget how to eventually. Yet we think until our brains collapse into an untracked paradox. Yet we magnetize towards fire to soothe our frostbitten fingers. Too close, they will char they will fall off if they’re too far so we are made aware. A permanent and predetermined state of equilibrium. This has always been the case. You have made it so. So why is there turmoil everywhere I go?
Hellooo this is my first poem on this site! I have always loved writing poetry and have a dream of getting published someday, but I'm aware that my style is quite juvenile. I would love some feedback and criticism <3
There are times when you feel like reaching out..............full length, to grasp - the ultimate; something, which you will not like to dispense away with no matter who leaves or alights.
Somewhere, from where you will never waver again - an Equilibrium.
But most of the times, the best you can do is to swish your hand and latch on to; thin, slippery, lukewarm air, vanishing as a wraith into a starless, roiled chasm...... and you are viciously abandoned amidst the pungent whiffs of the random metropolis.
Every night I lean against the rusted gate of this modest rented apartment and give a fish eye to the stillborn night.
I see a lean column of smoke from a smokeshaft ...obscure...far off; reaching out......for the stars cruelly dispersed by grimy draft.
I see the flickering, pale beam; the solitary, asocial gleam of the municipal lamp; reaching out meekly....towards me, getting devoured in a frenzy by the soft, persistent charge of the relentless molecules of dark.