Why write down my life

accurately when I am --


mostly just writing?

A poets a lost musician
the talents a gift
the ability to compose poems
arrange words in a fitting way
to evoke strong reactions

However their doomed to a life
searching for their band
a group of people
to accompany them in life
the void of which
will grant the depth of sadness
deep into their writing

The music they've lost
forced to live without
haunts their poem
dancing between the lines
of emotional burden.

Moon & Rain

A boy gazes at the moon.
Suddenly, he imagines her 
the way she’d step onto the terrace,
Letting her hair fall through her fingers

As the memory drifts,
he recalls how he once saw her as the moon.
Likewise,
she saw him as the rain.

Though he was life 
soft, cleansing, gentle 
she called him bad weather,
and brought an umbrella.

He/rain could fall on everything:
rooftops, rivers, roses in bloom 
but never on her.
(Even though she stood on the rooftop to begin with.)

Rain was never meant
to touch the moon.
*She was never his to begin with

It was not man’s dream
to walk the Earth, or gander at the spectacles in the sky—looking at shooting stars different in color and size that appeared white to our naked eyes.

The dream of an astronaut is that of a child.
Because children don't let go of their ambitions.

Always seeing all the colors of the moon lit stars, which is regular to them.

A telescope and a room filled with geniuses is the comparison here.
It was never ironic for the world's prodigies to consider taking a path in space exploration.

Willing to make a name for themselves, they would want to be as big as the sun.
With little to no care of what risk it might pose.

——————————
The Day Of Launch:

“Apollo 11 was the first successful crewed mission to land humans on the Moon. Launched on July 16, 1969, the mission culminated in Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin becoming the first humans to walk on the lunar surface on July 20, 1969, fulfilling President Kennedy's 1961 goal.“

You looked at the magazines stapled together.

Today you walk grown ready to engage with bodies outside of your world.

The ship is titled upward and the rocket propelled directly up, the countdown is only brief—because of time.

Today or Tomorrow you have left Earth behind.

…

Distortion in Space, a place where everything is lost.

A time when a grown man wishes it was a dream—because of the foolishness of this world’s product…children.

Why a poem ?
This,
Yes this is *******

I force my face to curve
Yes , this is totally *******.

A don't give a **** face ?
Yes,That's why I can't pose,
Astheticism
Is not my **** blood,
Yeah i can fake a smile though

I had never a steering in my hand,
Now I have it
I can direct it to literally anywhere

And yes , I don't know why I kept moving

I have seen thousands of sceneries through this
Window,
Now I really decided to stop on this

Now when I stepped on the surface,
I lost the **** steering

Now someone else has it,
Another steering same purpose

And hey that's totally ******* too,

I have my legs so I can walk
Steps more,
But i will not and can't follow the car though,

The car was **** nice,
Ac inbuilt, soundproof glass
Feeling like on castle,
Looking down on one's who's
On **** bycycle
And one's who on his feet

They are **** ******* ******* too,
But all there is wanted to make a stop

Each stop is just is exaggerated
Now or then doesn't matters

Everyone will lost their **** steering.

This ,
This is
Not poem on sheet
Just pure *******.

And yeah now I am the scenery
Either I wait for the
The person who drives
Or just walk few more steps

Either way it depends on kind of glass
The person wears
Red or green
Cause the traffic light is absolute white
Completely neutral

The light has a button too,
to change accordingly

But as the scenery is
The light is absolute ******* too.

I’ve got a new pad, 50 pages
That’s a lot of room for my rages
Enough space to spill my soul
Getting to the cardboard, that’s my goal
It might take me a while
I’ll have to laugh, cry and smile
When I finally get to the end
The cardboard will be my friend

Finally some cardboard, where I feel at home
I can write the words I’m proud to own
The other pages, they were OK I guess
A few good rhymes arranged in a mess
I like the cardboard, it treats me so well
It’s the last of the stories I tried to tell
My new pad is clean, it’s going to be great
As for the cardboard, I’ll just have to wait

The start of anything new
often goes askew
in at least a way or two,
but don’t worry,
just be you,
and don’t write a lie
or try to pry
the words in the slightest.
They always know the best.

I'd breathe, with fear of losing
all this air I've held in
for so long

I'd walk, with fear of flying
away from the ground I cherish
to float 'till I'm missing

I'd gaze, with fear of longing
and nothing looking back
at this insignificant me

I'd build, with fear of breaking
even myself under the cracking
weight of my tinkering

I'd write, with fear of silence
when the scribbles become wordless
only echoing worthlessness

I'd love, with fear of rejection
from expressions told too loudly
and brazenly

I'd live, with fear of death
that comes not from an end of an age
but from the motion stopping

I'd step back, with fear
of being forgotten
and lose the universe
I used as a canvas
to build systems,
write worlds,
inspire lives,
shoot frames...
and finally—
sleep

That feeling of being obligated.
Like a signal mom caring for a child that is not hers.

In the same way you came to me.
For whatever reason you adored me, like a child meeting their favorite superhero.

You admired my works like nobody else.

I admired the love you gave to me.
It was warm and unfamiliar.

So I stayed in bed a little longer.
The look that you gave me was passionate and ready…a burden on my back.

Something I could not repeat with my physicality.

I am a stranger to love and because of that I must vanish.

Leaving an oblivious note that you will read.