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It's funny how people say for others
"Don't judge a book by its cover".
Honey, I've read the whole series -
I still want my refund,
Believe me, that story never got interesting nor pretty.
It was comfort when you're feeling down,
It was home when no one else was around,
It was fun, when you needed a good time to laugh.

Why I want a refund you'd ask?
The magic forest isn't just pretty fairies and unicorns, right?
So was this book.
Cover ain't pretty, but we don't judge it - we give it a try.
Yet, under all the magic,
there's something scary, that could make you lose your pride.
Ugly witches, goblins, trolls,
but isn't the forest also their home?
Story can't always be bright,
But when the dark consumes all the light,
the book is no longer your anchor.
The pages contain ungly spells that make you feel like you're reading something else.
One of the trolls probably tried to trick me - he succeeded.
Can't believe once I've said this book was everything I needed.

Could be the troll,
could be the narrator,
could be just me,
but the comforting fairy tale,
is no longer what it used to be.

And I believe you feel the same way as me,
as this was our first and last journey,
cause the story got way too ugly so we both decided that it's just not worth it.

So, you see, I didn't judge it before,
nor will I do it now.
Yet, I'd like to bring it all back,
wishing I've never read that series nor reach its finale.
We don't judge, we live on with the disappointment.
dycarus Jun 19
she's made of honey,
vinegar,
and some flower seeds
A fairy
who
only
flew
under
the fall
of night
met her
lover
under
the songs
of stars
in choirs
of light,
they rest
under
the petals
of a white
rose, her
lover asks,
“how can
I find words
to paint
beauty
with my
lips?”
to which
the fairy
says to
him,
“why do
you feel
the will
to open
your
lips?
all that
slumbers
awaken
when
the eyes
alone find
beauty”
they
gaze
upon the
white
lanterns
of the
dark
in a
ripple
of tides
in the
leaves,
the wings
of a bird
drifting
as a
dream in
awakening,
the fairy
rises with
her lover,  
amongst the
moonflowers
and violets
above,
they flew
by lunar
guidance
towards
a field
of indigo
shades,
they descend
and softly
rest upon
the yellow
hearts,
the fairy
turns to
her lover,
and says,
“the
leaves
sing as
our own
tale, in
symphony
with the
delicate
branches
of our veins,
we lie
here and
hear the
music we
once had
sought to
hide, we
wished to
write about
it, rather,
we closed
our eyes,
for the ones,
as us, who
tightly
caged
their  
words are
the ones
with the
deepest
wells of
feeling,
we are
living,
breathing
oceans,
clothed
in skin,
living tiny
moments
of poetry
every
hour,
don’t
you
see
this?”
to which
he says,
“I do,
and here
it comes,
the
golden
light”
it arrives,
in touch
of all that
it sees,
and the
fairy
whispers,
“let us
sleep,
and
return
as specks
of time”
they close
their eyes,
the bird
rests upon
a lone
tree,
the peace
of the
Idyll, in its
picturesque
eternity,
prevails.
Shofi Ahmed Feb 27
The fairies of colour
lovely might give you
the whole ball of wax.
With the algorithm on your side
but how long can one hold the water  
walking on a deep spinning earth?
Forever closing in never a perfect circle
there is a fine gap an unseen other side
maybe until the moon if ever
reaches out to the deep walking earth  
the pi creeps in the sun follows by!
MuseumofSoph Dec 2021
As a child I listened for small voices

Little footsteps and mini hand prints

Night light left on
To welcome the visitors

They never said hello

I guess I’ll never know….
Wrote this a little bit ago and it reminded me of childhood
Coleen Mzarriz Sep 2021
If dreams occur because reality shifts into sequences and give a human being series of the strange specific pathway to open the doors of truth over desires and fantasy over morality that sometimes predicts the future of someone, it may look like something out of a classic painting, or Van Gogh's, or Breton's manifesto surrealism or even the impressionist Claude Monet — or simply falling off a building.

Though in dreams, someone will say it is their escapade, their haven, their call of past, their deja vus and jamais vu — but the occurrence of dreams are a horror to someone. And that someone is me.

Nobodies are like masses of droplets of raindrops collapsing on the ground and vanishing like smoke; they lit as the fire and at the same time, water as it is called the rain. Nobodies are treated as no faces in a dream. They represent the being of a human in the realm of this world. Sometimes, they are the persona of our hidden self, sometimes, they are feelings, a place, or a person.

Although nobodies can have faces, it is often that they remain clueless and distinct faces. Faint like a whisper, their touch is almost as the ghostly one and in the gist of it, it is as if they never touch us.

And we forget about their existence. I wonder if nobodies are considered to exist in our realm but are used as a subject to define meanings behind our waking life?

I want to be somebody in someone's waking life. To escape the amenities of the horror the somebodies are facing. I want to be there to breathe a small fresh air and be like a little fairy guiding someone who lost their way.

I guess then in dreams, nobodies want to escape too.
After a month of being gone here, I am back with this piece. More like a thought for this day. I am glad I have a lot of drafts like this.
Andrej Barovic Sep 2021
Down there, by the sea
Where merchants of yore
Traded on shores
Treads She, whose countenance holds
Kind spirit and elven mean

Down there, by the sea
Where mighty Venice
Once brought ships to moor
Enchanting, with silence She stoops
Through the Ocean's azure door

Down there, by the sea
Where Empires fell
A Fairy dwells
That brightly seems, with endless gleam
To be the goddess from my dreams
I S A A C Aug 2021
annoyance, I was branded due to my flamboyance
joyance, connected to divine i am clairvoyance
I swim to the shore from the sheltered deep
I swim to the top to feel the sun’s heat
anything in hopes I do not repeat
the way I felt under you, the way you painted me so blue and alone
a throne in an empty castle
a never-ending mental battle
me versus your voice embedded in my head
I travel to the nearest chapel to rebuke you
I unravel in my travels to run away
the problems return day by day
no amount of drugs and buds will resolve
the problems just seem to evolve
with every folk and wind in the road
with every smoke and grind blown
I gotta face my own
reflection, deflecting blame
rejection, embargoed in shame
protection, from you and your games
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