"manifestations" poems
Her eyes are poetry and a blink of her eyes is a poem.
Her voice is poetry and each of her words is a poem.
Her thinking is poetry and each of her thoughts is a poem.
My love for her is poetry and each of my expressions for her is a poem.
My care for her is poetry and each of my suggestions for her is a poem.
My desire for her is poetry and each expression of my romance for her is a poem.
Our mutual attraction is poetry and each of our confessions to one another is a poem.
Our eternal relationship is poetry and each of our manifestations for one another is a poem.
Our way of talking to each other is poetry and each of our conversations with one another is a poem.
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 9:21 AM UTC
Rocky roads and crumbling gravel,
Fathers work hard to put bread on the table
Selfless decisions and callused hands
The pain that a mother goes through
is one we yet have to understand.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
I found a place of solitude inside my mind,
Self reflection teeters on the line.
I speak my affirmations, shaping my manifestations,
Satisfaction on the road to attraction.
Through universal connection, I feel it rise,
Flowing gently through my consciousness.
I am your daughter, twin flame, friend,
Teacher or lover, it doesn’t matter
For we are all made of stardust and matter,
And that is the piece that truly matters.
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 12:43 PM UTC
Sometimes it feels so natural to let a man's hands run over my body, feeling every dip and curve and bump and bruise that exists. It is almost as if his hands and his longing are physical manifestations of my new-found womanly confidence. I have reached a point where I am comfortable in my own skin and ready to celebrate. I want to celebrate like there is no tomorrow and do something a little crazy, a little stupid, live one more breath of this night and one more kiss of this dream. Right now everything just feels so real and raw. To feel a man's touch on a body still so young is nothing to be afraid of - it is something to cherish and hold dear, for it only happens a short while.
Sometimes it feels so natural to wear a short skirt and walk with a sway in my hips, each step with my heeled feet and long legs echo across the floor. There is something in the reverberance that acts as a fire in my soul, the flames within as courage on the outside. The sway of my hips work wonders as tickets to concerts, the pass to the front of the line, filling my empty hand with a full drink. It is a drug of sorts and something that I cannot get enough of. I take what is handed to me for the short while that it is available. Wearing my short skirt and tall shoes, I sway my hips to the beat of a different drummer while I can.
Sometimes it feels so natural to drink to my heart's content and my stomach's contempt. I drink to make the pain and the thoughts and the worries and the stress melt away as my body melts on the dance floor. I become one with the music and one with the night. Carefree and unconcerned I drink until it is dawn. It feels so wonderful to live like there is no tomorrow with no regrets. When I drink I drink to darken the past and brighten the future. The sultry sway of my hips become the sloshing of a boat about to be capsized. The running hands over my body turn into drunk fumbling and clumsy fingers. But I drink while I can and enjoy while I can.
Sometimes it feels so natural to be so bad - defiant and strong and a will to do whatever I choose.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
What if they had a War and nobody came !
my sentiment all along
Actions so transparent and telegraphed a mile long
absurd anchoring, even more absurd triggering
so absurd as to be meaningless
the hotchpotch logic of simpletons on acid
The banal manifestations of the anodyne retards with advanced hysteria
Think unruly kids on Colombian marching powder
think advanced psychosis with total stage ten delusions
Watch mass hysteria contagion
Logic was never there, rationality bolted beating Usain Bolt
Inveterate liars and fantasists now control maddened throngs
Oh dear! they decided I am madly in love with acquaintance
neither I or poor acquaintance know this
But let not the truth get in the way of a soap opera by the insanes
After All meaningless triggers and Delusionary prompts
keep the sheeples busy in People's Power utopia
They are all having a war, nobody has told me about it
I don't understand their language yet they are very eloquent
Deep in their imagined Neuro-linguistic Programming or mental pygmies playing Pavlov Dog theory of the semi-illiterates
I just realized why cancer is prevalent amongst them
They carry so much poison and emotional ******* in their beings
It pollutes and eat away at them internally, they get cancer!
Never have been interested in little minds and liars and thieves
Have little time for dumb people, the toxics and the sheeples
What makes cretins think I take anything of theirs to mind
what can I learn or gain from contemptibles
I don't feel inferior so why would I want to learn
how to slander and defame others to bring them down
'Slander is the GREAT LEVELLER voiced one of them
poor inadequate soul, poor pathetic degenerate
I look twenty years younger than my years, no wrinkles
Just slightly greying, mind as sharp as razor
Because I don't carry acidic ******* hate or foul nonsense
in my head,
Because my mind is full of worthy knowledge
because I am not an ignoramus with attitude
because I am not a shameless coward or an empty headed nonentity
Because I am not amongst the madding crowd
I am not an insignificant pointless HATER with cancer in waiting!
I am NOT a SHAMELESS RACIST white THIEF discrediting the
Victim I STOLE from
OR
an OBNOXIOUS gang of SOCIALIST crazed subhumans cancerized
by jealousy and envy
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
Swirling morning mist, draws abstract patterns of love
moving sprightly, between golden rays of sun,
prattling breeze and other manifestations winter presents,
green grass on the meadow looks like a dew studded carpet
pussyfooting rabbits, lick dew drops in a hurry and run back
to the warmth of their burrows, to sleep for some more time.
Sun, the nourisher eternal of the world , don't hide anymore
come out, peep above the crowd of sleepy grey old clouds,
looking grumpy, ill mannered and winter arrogant to the core,
don't like their attitude a bit, come out blow your trumpet of warmth
make the drooping wet birds, dry, fly up to the sky with a happy cry
sing songs of joy, warm the hearts,drive the winter gloom out.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Who can stay away from the Ultimate energy
If he is always surrounding life like air
He is the continuous "positive happenings" that molding
our paths...
Who can stay away from him
If the light as one of his manifestations
never forgets and gives up to brighten the morning...
Calling every creature
to celebrate the new beginning...
My soul said:
"I will definitely give up my thoughts about the magic wand..."
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
***Estranged in summer rains'
landscaped dissolution
evincing season's discontent
neath sun's suffocating alienation;
used to rhyme with warmth
and effulgent delectation,
emotional realms fizzled in a
heated halfhearted sizzle
of down-pour's restless manifestations***
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
Something about the moon's phases terrifies me
Maybe it's the movement within me
Maybe it's my manifestations
The cruel end to all of my hesitations
We don't talk anymore but you're always welcome in my head
My head and heart are fighting over the same place
I hardly listen to what they've said
Go ahead and pick your choice, you can have either
I've already ascertained that you'll choose neither
But you are a constant reminder
I ruin everything that could change me for the better
You moved on and said "forget her"
But you can't forget me now, can you?
I've manifested you under the full moon
And you will always be a memory that keeps me full, too
Confused and hardly fulfilled
You were a change that thrilled
I wasn't ready for you and what you brought
And I swing like a pendulum-- more so than I ought
Regardless, I write poetry about you
My subconscious craves you
We have conversations in my head
Where could it have led?
We will live with never knowing,
Those brief moments are dead
May 14, 2021
May 14, 2021 at 8:40 PM UTC
Someone once told me that love was blind.
Youth is wasted on the young,
We are all going to die.
After un-clutching scraps of what I'll never find,
This is all that I've brought.
I am all that is mine.
Don't ever, ever, little girl,
Listen to the old.
The world of those who
Raised them were as dark as
Devils compared to the
Funlit days we live.
To them, infatuation came
In work's way.
To them, romance was
Mind's comfort; the
Substance of fantasy.
In our world, your heart's
Every beat for another
Rings as true
To Love's ears as
Her own
To herself.
Yet the cloak hangs so heavily
Around all of these scenes.
Each notion a portrait,
Undistinguished and vague yet
Littered with details strewn in
Alarming
Array.
I take with rock salt
All that they've had to say.
For how does dim
Memory
To a feeling
Compare?
Let us forget to look back
And listen for
Wisdom.
Let us forget to ask
For opinions; vantage points.
All fingerprints blur
In time and fade forgotten
Into their surfaces; the
Grip they once formed
Long, long released.
Love, if only for a second.
Love, even if you know
That it's wrong.
No love ever was.
Love.
You'll have bigger
Regrets in time.
Only we know
What it means to be
Exactly this
Young
Today.
Only I
See through these keyholes
Carved upon my Face.
I am free from pre-conceived restraints.
I am a beacon
Of naïve wisdom,
A sponge for all feelings
Un-hardened by fate.
Suggestions
Directions
Instructions abound.
I am free from these shackles,
Boundless heartwaves
Resound
I see not your keyholes for the
Key in my eye. You are
Divine Feminine expressing Herself
Through yourself; as yourself.
Quill dipped in own wisdom.
Heart's blood and history.
Afloat in eternities of
Utter female
Warmth.
Someone once told you that love was blind.
That youth was wasted on the young.
I don't want to hear you
Sounding that old
Ever again. Notions.
Heartwaves. Manifestations.
Art saved. Inspirations.
Emotions.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
The Physics of Love: The Equivalency Fallacy
the poet places his Sunday porcelain coffee mug
upon his bare chest, purposed to heat the heart to a
higher degree, equal to hers, next door, three feet away,
in their communal bed
two identical alarm clocks, one on each nightstand,
confirms the degree differential, for far beyond time-telling,
it informs on me, providing the room temperature,
and her side of the bed, 5 degrees warmer
the collegial scientists posit theoretical excuses,
the rooms wind currents, proximity to the A/C, body mass,
all refuted after visual and mechanical inspection,
all indelible proofs of the Equivalency Fallacy
despite the visual evidence abounding all around,
despite the surrounding starlike quantity of busted,
love songs, poems and the other artistic churn,
depicting the principle, one requires love physics to validate the
living principle for the living, that love is rarely identical
in quantitative quality, typology, representation and
manifestations measurable
each greets the other with morning declarations of
mutuality, trying to find those hundred different ways
to love her/him today, employing imaginative artifice to proof
the impossibility, that in every aspect your living love ability
is precious capital precision equal
and ha! each love is the greater...
you knew this?
then you knew, his coffee spills (intentionally?) and the
Fighting Fallacy rules,
every thing is fair in love and war, for they too, are
identical and equal, in so many ways,
but never quantifiable exactly
8:33am, 73 degrees, on my side
11/12/17
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
In many different tongues, each one love's manifestations,
Some even to me unknown until the very moment,expressed,
I keep talking to you, my divine lover,out of my passion,intense
For you brimming within. Distraught a bit, feeling left in the lurch
On pouring rain and thunder storm; but you know how firm I am!
I stood rooted here, lost all sense of time, queer, ever felt you near.
Then a sharp pain hit weakening my heart ,but couldn't deter me,
I am a cat of nine love lives, a species so stubborn, thrives in trust.
Dead of night it is , I keep vigil, perking up ears, eyeing skywards,
How do I know from, where would my only love, to me speak?
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 2:56 PM UTC
I see a pattern Everywhere:
Circles and globes (three dimensional circles);
Shiny rings of fire.
Countless manifestations of this same shape.
Star-spangled galaxies wheeling through the sky:
That half-globe dome.
Earth, in circular orbit (more or less) around the Sun,
Escorted by the Moon.
Days give way to seasons,
Repeating every year.
Groundhog Days becoming
Groundhog Creations
Perhaps.
The list seems endless:
Hopkins’ dapples,
Planets, craters, cyclones, anti-cyclones, sea currents,
***** apples, oranges, nuts, potatoes,
Teardrops, heads, faces, eyes, mouths,
Holes!
Coins, bin lids, and plates;
Sunflowers, daisies, pansies,
Rings of mushrooms,
Circling birds of prey,
A cat curled in a circle,
Like a foetus.
Life as we know it
Is a circle
And a cycle too.
Birth, Death, Blossom, Wilt.
Reincarnation?
Renewal?
Clock-faced Time itself.
Eternity might be a circle,
Infinity the same.
Maybe even God,
Some way.
Perhaps we still are building God,
For Him or Her to travel back through time
Like Doctor Who
To Create The Big Bang,
And form this expanding Universe,
Thus taking us full circle.
Or maybe the Universe will fold back in upon itself,
Producing yet one more Big Bang,
In an endless cycle,
Of Big Bangs,
Amongst this ever circling
Multiverse.
Paul Butters
© PB, 14th February, 2011 at 14.00, in Humberside.
Mar 29, 2011
Mar 29, 2011 at 4:14 AM UTC
Is mystery dependent on me thinking of mystery?
It is a safe bet.
For when what is central is knowledge, then I can only become aware of mystery if upon something new or unknown.
Thus, mystery is not knowledge, but the lack of it.
Mystery is ignorance.
Thus, my meditation is rather reflection on ignorance,
As if I'm trying to better describe ignorance, or find a way out of ignorance with only the experiential.
I think of mostly consciousness and the universe here, in terms of my and humanity's ignorance of them.
Not only am I limited by my own understanding but also the understanding of others, however much they are even more intelligent than me.
I see others working on problems that have proven to not solve the mystery, the mystery being ignorance.
The only thing that could solve it is omniscience.
Then it follows that what I'm really trying to solve is omniscience.
"Infinite cognition" as the Buddha put it.
Even if a person could have omniscience, it would be colored by how they can make sense of reality.
Knowledge would take the form of what is most familiar.
Thus, when wondering about a question as to what is pi, they may say about 3.14.
The answer conditioned on how people and the omniscient one would have the capacity to hear.
Maybe this seems more like intuition.
But omniscience would denote the person as a speaker, yet only allowable to speak as what was conducive for everyone's best.
This is how Baha'is look at Manifestations of God: only allowed to share a certain amount at a time.
Just as the Son said "I have many things to share with you, but you cannot hear them now".
Still their capacity would be limited to what they themselves were interested in.
For one who is marginalized and oppressed or even thronged by multitudes, often has no willingness to delve deeply into subject matter, it causing some to stray from a correct path.
Since fractal systems work strongest in more diverse settings, it would seem that the very thing that makes it strong also makes its capacity to hear weak.
Omniscience therefore, if given to only a few, has a limited range of effect.
But even this limited range would change the entire system.
As Baha'u'llah calls His followers "the leaven" and the Son calls His followers "the salt".
"Many are called but few are chosen" seems derogatory in a world where "ye are all the leaves of one tree".
World consciousness almost arose to love tonight, but the lover ensared it in his anger once again.
If I close my ears to them, will it go away?
If they close my ears to me, will I go away?
Strength in the diversity of parts.
Strength really meaning pain.
E Pluribus Unum.
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 1:30 AM UTC
Presumptuous, perhaps arrogant,
My perception of reality.
I invoke, with humility,
The Great Spirit and
Receive an answer.
Heavenly manifestations
In the form of trees,
Birds and dreams.
My reality.
But, what about me?
I am important.
I am destined.
I am.
I
Regulate and manipulate
My world.
Channeled energies, memories
Are brick and mortar
For the building of myself.
I build and build,
Adding rooms,
Windows, staircases.
My domain.
My center draws farther
From the edge.
Understanding expands.
I know more and more.
I sleep.
I dream of angels,
Of nature in bliss,
Of blue skies imbedded
With soft clouds,
Of worlds--
Many, many, worlds--
And, I dream of myself.
I wake up.
I wake.
I
Am aware, facing
A being not of my choosing,
Beyond myself.
Shrill whistles,
Bright, flashing bulbs,
Agitated bees,
Forgotten memories,
Woven into the
Space that unfolds--
And more.
No longer under my control,
The earth spins on
Its axis.
A world apart from me.
Presumptuous, perhaps arrogant,
My perception of reality.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
Spotlights on us
seemingly illuminating
and otherwise blinding
can't see the audience
can't tell the difference
between time and space
different manifestations
of each other creating
infinite mandalas
poured into rivers
tones rising out
of and falling into
silence
I trip over words and pick the sounds out of the scrapes in my palms
I make motions to pick up the gravity but my actions are glitchy, disconnected
an abstracted cadence
remote inflection
radio nuance
rhythm break
modal static living in stasis
ants on a screen as grains of rice
with bubbles in a glass of beer
merging like two tones
harmonizing on a
secondary tonal plane
move me like a modulation
end me like an infinite crescendo
I am suspended
over several tones
just let it go
and I am resolved
follow where the voices lead
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
He was one of those guys who marry money.
And you can grok that in any sense you desire.
But be forewarned, my friend,
I am well-versed in a multitude of
Marry-For-Money manifestations.
Take, for example, marrying the Boss' daughter.
Come with me, for illustration's sake,
Join me in one such dis-functional household:
George & Martha's place on campus--
A classic Tudor-revival home,
Ivied & plushly-appointed,
A coveted faculty perk
Which goes along with the gig.
And the gag, for that matter.
I speak, of course, of Edward Albee's
Two perversely miserable humans,
Married to each other, to wit:
George & Martha, leading lives of
Pubis-scratching desperation, in
"Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"
She's the only daughter--
Daddy's precious jewel--
Only girl-child of the President
Of a small, rural college.
He's the middle-aged professor
With no great pedagogic or research prowess.
His working-class perspective,
Viewing the quiet academic life to be
A significant step up in genteel existence.
Except--and there's the rub:
Mere existence is a far cry from
Living the good life Dan Draper &
The rest of Satan's Mad Men minions
Taught him to take for granted.
So George & Martha,
In terms of core values,
Have little in common;
More like opposites, in fact:
His starvation diet as a child &
Her helping out Mom at the
Food Bank on Saturday mornings.
It's those formative razzmatazz years,
He lacked the behavior blueprint,
The overwhelming fatigue of acting.
He's perpetually memorizing lines,
Practicing ****** expressions &
Physical gestures & phrases.
Guard up, another Oscar-worthy performance,
Burton is superb & Elizabeth Taylor
Showing us precisely why she is &
Will continue to be revered as an actress.
George knows she has his number.
The thing about the play is the
Intense malice the couple feel for each other.
For the audience, an experience in stage drama
Best classified as an intensely painful morality play.
A good thing to remember: Live Theater
Adds value to a community.
Give generously, please!
But I digress.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
As
Boundaries
Create
Distance
Egos
Fluctuate,
Giving
Hollow
Insecurities
Justification,
Killing
Likely
Manifestations,
Nullifying
Our
Purest
Qualities,
Reducing
Satisfactions
That
Usually
Vary,
Welcoming
Xenial
Yin-yang
Zealously
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC
***Fell heal over heads
in love with a poet,
he's mostly a rhyme schemer
likes Poe and his dark Raven,
in actuality, I'd fancy him more if
he were like Pablo Neruda, but I digress
I'm much accurately fashioned after Emily Dickinson
chasing heaven's June bugs toing and froing,
we'd meet at a perfectly superfluous coffee shop
he'll be murmuring elegiac pentameter
I'm simply looking to devour precious words,
we'd argue about abstract destinations,
straight forward persuasions and
premonitions of wayward ink allusions,
some days I want to claw mine own eyes out
amid all that nonsensical alliteration
others, I want to rip out embellishments
of his black heart's magnification,
he mutters tumult under his breath,
states he's abundantly sickly tired of all my
fanatical froufroutant flourished fantasies,
albeit, we're mild mannered artistes
of overstatement and simplification
thus, we continue laying it on thickly
I, with my hyperbolic cuppa tea and honey,
he's all brass tacks, no nonsense black coffee
ultimately, we reservedly seek gratification,
envisioning who functionally makes it first
to a finished line of manifestations's publication,
in eternity's poetic intentions and beyond***
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
Every morning at 9
She puts on the
banker's disguise
puts her poetry
in a sacred jar
next to the ashes
of
her husband
her dad
her mom.
She's a river of currents
behind the smile
darkly ******
phantasims
fly and flower
She not only carries
the keys to the vaults,
but also
the keys to wisdom
sublime
She can see right through you
when
she wants to
She can read your mind
Smilies
Metaphors
Haikus
Rap
Manifestations
of
all that makes us human,
These are the currents she rides
while
she
files
e-mails
signs
floats loans
defaults
default swaps
The whole time
she's got on
John Prine's illegal smile
She's watching secret movies
inside
she's alive.
It took many years
to learn to hide
the images
the colors
thought dreams
which flow inside -
while in meetings
behind her eyes
flows
the poetry
from herself, she cannot hide.
The commute ends
The day ends
She unscrews the sacred jar
pen to paper
the currency of poetry
resurrected
she comes alive,
All disguises
hide.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
Your love
sets up mirrors
on four sides
on which I appear
as myriad,
all prompted
by your countless
eager imaginations.
Like Krishna
at once I dance
with countless
manifestations of you
in my mind,
Oh! my Radha.
Your brimming passion,
in thousand tongues
sings about my love to you;
how can I be mute
not paying my tribute
with my mellifluous flute?
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
I'm stuck in this room
Trapped by the decaying white walls
That I scrape away at,
Mindlessly, as I shift
From medicated dreams to
Manic insomnia.
I thought the last thing I said to you was
Don't leave me here.
My eyes bleed
As I try to remove the demons
Infesting me,
Creeping through my lashes
Into my irises.
The droplets stain the walls,
Fingerprinting my frenzied panic,
Echoing the last thing I said to you.
Why did you leave me here?
The air is intoxicating,
Shifting from breathlessness to weightlessness.
I'm sure they poison me here.
And you, the fallen angel of my thoughts,
You fiendish whisperer,
You have felt my fear,
Witnessed its brutality
In its shifting manifestations,
But still you left me here.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be willing
to take mental risks
for a chance at greater understanding;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to delve into the Void,
come back with some new thing
and share that thing with the World;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be sensitive
to one's own Path
reminding others of theirs;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to not be afraid
to defy your Time, peers and Culture
to bring forth the Divinity inherent in everything;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is not not be deterred
by what you are told, but instead
to be guided by what you feel truest in yourself;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be able to interpret
and take things symbolically,
*Mythos and Logos*, synesthetically creating a new mutual Reality;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be willing and able
to be a Prism for the Divine;
to purify the Mirror of your being;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be Artistic; Creative and Imaginative,
not that the Mystic must be an Artist, or that any Artist is a Mystic,
but that the Mystic is most naturally expressed through the various Artistic mediums;
To be an example for the masses
of just how the many are One
as One is truly the many
and thus All is Divine:
How the Universe itself
and all it's inhabitants
are the expressions
reflections and
manifestations
of the Godself;
An illusion,
A Dream:
**Godself
and self
is One.**
--
All is a Chapel of Sacred Mirrors
divided by Mind
into Self and Other,
but all is truly Godself:
Collective Unconscious and Personal Conscious,
Brahman and Ātman,
Godself and Self;
One in the same.
Tat tvam asi.
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be willing and able
to look inward and learn:
Godself and Self;
One in the Same.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 3:21 AM UTC
A jaundiced adaptation
of fillers raucous threats
attempts obsolete mimicking
in a conspicuous pomposity
of disfigured reckonings
slipped us the tongue of your
ostentatious audacity
mid judgmental manifestations
Disengaged, as our eyes grew dim
' neath the masquerade
of multiplex duplicity
**who the ****** hell do you think you are?**
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
Figures standing in my peripheral
With eyes like the void, paralyzing me
Illusions fade to reality now
Drift into the nightmarish miasma
I thrash to no avail
Fighting to escape their dead gaze
Evading my vision
Silhouettes flicker in the dark
Dancing in the pitch black dead of night
Hallucinations of aberrations
Whispering in the back of my mind
Manifestations of apparitions
Phantoms fabricating
Horror permeating my core
Nocturnal terror
Haunting my soul
Manic visions plaguing
Every fiber of my being
Panicked and screaming
Please God save me
Perchance a dream
Facade of reality
Stuck on repeat
I can't tell the difference
Falling into darkness
Hopeless to escape
Painting a bleak
foreboding dreamscape
Minds eye collapsing to oblivion
This existence consumed by shadows
Trapped in this enigmatic consciousness
My perception fleeting through the night
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC