neither nightmare nor a dream stained in mauve are the back of my eyelids hued with olives floral fadings be i wash my crime off, one spatter at a time and erase any false pretenses. oh how i long for a canvas that's mine a pulse to be uphold with nails of luster to an empty museum dark and forlorn smile. flash. take heed. don't ask for more.
Love is nothing like what is shown on-screen; Bouquets lavish, flowers never-dying Every conflict resolved as if foreseen Hearts so warm, characters end up singing. The love that's beyond cameras and lights Is love embellished with imperfections - Behind their flowery, script-induced lines Lies no such true feelings and emotions; Though love may not be sunny days in June But the darkness in the sky at winter, Having real intent behind "I love you"s Are lines more worthy to be delivered. Love is nothing like what is shown on-screen; But more deserving of happy endings.
how fascinating it is to read about things that exist within the vastness of the universe, where though one looks up to the highest skies, they cannot be seen by the naked eye; where its existence would only be known to man through its discernible temperatures, unimaginably scorching —
& how dismaying it is to look down with eyes, unbearably naked at where the spaces in between our fingers are filled by one another, where the existence of two clasped hands is discernible to any man with sight; but unlike the entities in the galaxies, there is no warmth at all within.
how amusing it is to compare us, insignificant beings to greater things lying within the universe, to rethink the clear difference between what is visible, and what can be felt; a reminder that what once was scorching could die out in a blink of an eye.
and the world would continue to turn on its axis as if nothing happened.
(how utterly disheartening it is, indeed to slowly step back and realize what truly exists, and what only existed at the speed of light.)