A wisp of a breath, a flick of a brush,
The canvas begins to be filled with colour.
A hint of violet, a dab of vermillion,
It seems that she is painting a girlish parlour.
A red drips slowly down her wrist,
As she wipes away at her work.
The foggy glass seems to offer some relief,
Against the cold harsh winter.
The girl stands on her frost-bitten toes
And look upon the scene with wonder.
As the tantalizing warmth appear against her fingers
She can't help but ponder.
Why are some people in the parlour
But others look from the outside in?
For she can't help but question
What is deep within.
This scene is depicting a girl looking into a parlour in the midst of winter. She does not understand why she cannot go in even though she is freezing. The concept of social hierarchy seems like a world away yet she tries her hardest to get a peak of what is going on inside. She had cut herself on some patches of the uneven glass and her lips were turning blue from the frost-bite. I would like to think that this takes place in Russia.
We socially constructed
By age, by title
What if we didn't?
What's the alternate
Of family, of community?
Are we wrong?
Can we undo
What was done?
What it'll be like?
Did we follow biology?
Did we follow culture?
In the hereinafter
Or in eternity
I wish it's better
Life on soil
Ups and downs
It's good still
Life in sky
Or in blackhole
Please be better
Joy or pain
In love or heartbroken
Any other choices?
Idol, fanboy and fangirl
Why are we here?
What about ranks?
Slaves of time
Can we ever imagine
Everything we are not?
Can we ever become
Anything we are not?
So help me... God.
Down no plains of flowing grass
up no hills of trees that stand
what tips your hat?
where is your flaw?
defused for all, mimicked
in the voice of a flower
through hearts of trees, outstretching
complex, limbs hidden
in common goal, conditioned
used for all;
how do you stand?
quite so tall
in divined obsession
it seems to find all
nurtured and withdrawn
concealed in fixation
no one finds your flaw
for there’s none at all
yet from deception, true love finds all
in this shambled; shrine,
not flawed in design
nurtured from unseen
confronted with existence.
a system of life
where i shall follow your orders,
I'm startled from your cruelty
danger is looming ahead
excuse my charisma
but you should beware
'cause I'm the *SIGMA
who stands up
the mighty sword
in his hands
against the King
He's fighting for the good
the sigma is the traditional knight who fights against the evil even if it is his king
I stand underneath the plump tree
That has risen far from the apple.
With my dry tongue on the shoes
For some water from your mud.
My heart's a bloke -tired and troubled,
Lost in the grassroot of family.
All the ladies in heels run away.
My pungent smell -inherited possession,
Grabs few perfumed odours for a day.
And I, distanced away for them,
Prepare my sun-burnt skin and
poorly torn garment for a shower.
Yet still, after the rain of rants
My dry tongue sticks to your boots
And I crawl my way to lick it,
To drink the leftovers of your bathe
In the lakes behind the tree.
she was so influenced by others
language, character, looks
no one knew who she truly was
or if she could ever be
Where does hierarchy begin?
Is it where the strong is on top,
and the weak step upon?
Where does your dignity be placed?
Is it where your always be the winner,
no matter what, even it has bitter taste.
Is SURVIVAL really that cruel?
That some of us are just a tool,
a fool for the strong to be cool.
No, it can't be that bad
yet reality is quite sad.
Despite our hard beginnings
Life still is beautiful
that losing isn't everything.
Dignity is placed -
where you respect yourself the most
and Hierarchy isn't important
to where your love is...
yeH! a new poem, a longer one and it's been long i haven't rhyme like this. a bit hard when you have limited vocab, my apologies for its simplicity and many thanks for reading.
"Life is like a line," they chime,
Joined by "A" and "B."
They say, in fact, and with exact,
That Life resides between.
But of their claim, which seems mundane,
That says the lines superior,
We cannot conceive that they believe
That Life can be so linear.
Of this, we say, to you today:
(And, we mean it with great honesty)
The line, you see, can only be
A piece in this Geometry.
(aka: Hierarchy Malarkey: A Traditional Folk Dance from the Planet Ailanthus)
And we return back to square one:
where windows are grilled and
hierarchy is based on what you wear.
where movements are restricted but
thoughts run wild without restrains.
A square is not a circle.
Acts like one.
Things come in full circle.
Life is humorously ironic.