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Unpolished Ink May 2022
Reverie
it's a place to dream
a warm afternoon
with a thought ice cream
and idea sprinkles
While
drinking
tea by
the sea,
I travel
forever
when
I close my
eyes, and
become
the soft
waves of
memory,
whiteness
becomes
the pearls
of reverie,  
I will
return
as I have
always
done,
I forget
the dew
falling from
this heart
of mine,
and heal.
D A W N Jan 2022
sometimes my thoughts speak louder
than the vision reality gives me.
pulling me into a reverie
out in this place
called
reality
a poem i wrote in 2017
Coleen Mzarriz Aug 2021
It was a blurry reflection I saw in the clouds,
it was clear in the sky and as if I was facing my own body —
my legs can barely walk, my hands were trembling
and I can only open my mouth to breathe.

Though there are birds who prey on me, my wings have kept me on guard
and I stood still, alone, with my legs broken
and of little faith.

The world bestowed upon me was ruthless for someone as dreamy and a little in love as me —
I wish that sometimes I can be as hard as a rock,
so the world can see how cruel I am to her
and give me something that I can call a spark of joy.

I have beheaded myself from having to only daydream about falling in love, I have disconnected the veins flowing around my heart —
so it won't feel anything, but even the day sets down and night comes up,
I would still be in love and be of little faith, that I, part of a million particles living in on this earth — can still be held by a man whom I hold on so dearly.

Maybe if I would be less cruel to myself and nice to hard rocks, he will find me and I can walk again.
Maybe my heart that was made of soft cotton easy to be pulled by can be colorful like the blue sky,
and my face can mirror back the clouds' reflection —
and my hands can touch the end fur of the trees dancing when they see me in love wholly and less ruthless.

Maybe if I say maybe now, I can be held like I am a precious gem in his eyes and the birds won't be my enemies anymore,
they will sing wedding bells' songs and I'd smile in regards,
I will strum my harp and the only thing I can get by at the end of the day was his smile,
and that will build my little faith, and I will feel the love again, the once daydreamer, has now fulfilled her reality.

And I am back again in writing these, for myself while I continue to work and I sit here — in front of my desktop waiting for my reveries to come to life.
Writing from the perspective of Ruth.
Been a while since I last posted. Hope everyone is doing okay.
yet another quiet reverie
precursor for a life forgotten
snatched away like the dreams I never had
of lush green valleys around the mansions,
fancying a meal of venison
in a clandestine shade of night
sparkling wine was a flavour of few,
lying awake at night
with a lover by my side

raucous laughter coming from all around
kind behaviour of the family makes you astound,
as a whole rather than a half
all together cherishing your art

lives were made and ruined in the night,
take it from an artist for losing everything in sight

a kleptomaniac of not just thoughts but words to boot,
fishing for inspiration while straightening my suit

scrambling for meaning even in the delusions,
living in denial rather than waking up from illusions.
Maybe in my dreams, I'm an artist.
horseloversmyth Mar 2021
owls in willow trees
saddest of images to me


owls in willow trees
softened broken limbs in me


owls in willow trees
let mossy scars all over me


owls in willow trees
night windows time in me


owls in willow trees
now have nothing to do with me


owls in willow trees
where I have been arrives in me


owls in willow trees
more than many of each of me


owls in willow trees
past beyond memory me


owls in willow trees
now there is enough of me
Him Jan 2021
I am trapped within this reverie of revived memories; of when you were by my side.

The warmth of dawn feels as though a cruel, albeit gentle lie. My Sun...set, tis that day, when you left me with why.

Why?

Why... couldn't I make you stay? Why does everything I grasp tightly... still slip away?
These thoughts of you from a cage, that keep all logic and reason, within gaze; though beyond embrace.
Astrea Oct 2020
Lost to us were the
bright and sunny days in the 60s,
lazy afternoons & the pristine scent of grass after rain,
all that matters is invisible to our naked eye.

Time is the bottle
we cram memories with &
fleeting is our being ****** into an unprepared tomorrow,
drowning in the long-gone reverie of yesterday

Nostalgia is the sweet lie we murmured, the small
cloud of dust suspended in the air &
the smoke rings spiralled toward
a December night sky.

Forgotten dreams & present madness is a
scratched vinyl record stuck in the fissure of time;
crackling noise muffling our sighs —
Gone, they say, gone.
I'm feeling a bit weird recently, like I'm longing for something I have never experienced, missing old days before I was even born.
Old days old days, why are they always better than the present?
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