Life is a FantasyIt's not real, you know -Life is a Fantasy by analillithbar
All these words flowing like a river,
Soft along a stony bed, gurgling gently,
Or raging over banks and fields.
Nothing exists - it's all very temporal,
That concrete upon which you stand,
It is merely sand vibrating at a very low frequency.
Now the pace has picked up,
The tones, the vibrating core of reality,
It's loosening its grip on us all,
The dream is beginning to take over.
One day you will finally awaken to the truth:
None of this matters - not these words nor our breath,
For all the things we think we are, truly we are only illusions.
Don't Fall In Love With A Writer Just because they will bruise your neck with pearls of metaphors; and splash palettes of colours onto your chest with reckless waves and boundless twilight. They will smear ink onto your lips as you kiss them because that is how they leave hickeys. They are wildest in their 2 a.m. diary, and liveliest in book racks of novels; they have butterflies in every heartbeat and they breathe living poems. They leave trails in libraries and coffee shops like Hansel leaves crumbs in forest and they have undying lovers because every love story is ever living in their abyssal oceans of analogies and similes. They know every cliché like the sunset knows the moon rise, and every wound in their heart like blood in their veins. They are terrifying because they weave you in splinters of fires rolling down their cheeks. They are weird because they don't smile much but sometimes you could catch their smiles in poems or tales. They are psychotic b
Unseen age lines sounds, hidden, locked-away relative, unshown son, genes-damned,
never showcased, always heard, auditive hauntings spooking new familiar doors.
Warm afternoon colored door, peacful sparseness, blind sheet ensuring peace-during morning remains-
desk sleeps, paper chaos, book chaos,
all below wood where clothes where laptops rest.
Neighbouring carpets, familiar bed tables, confused looking lamp, hat tilted, stumbling drunk,
ill-balanced stacks of coins fearful, remote control´s looming admonition.
Happens, meanwhile amused grayed bed chuckles, joints creaking, while above buzzes some keyboard,
yet, peace will not last,
next door, orders,whims will be fired, peace will bbe broken, sunday will be disturbed.
On fading memories 2-
I have the feeling I wrote this.
Many years ago.
Many days ago.
Many scoldings ago.
Didn´t she lament that she had forget a date
for her arthritis therapy?
Oh, but slip behind you
the date of your appointment
bemoan oan oan oan on
about the direction your life is steering on
a pile of stench, dead bladders and
Everyday her daughter
forces her to write her name
one, two, three-
exlodes when the maid reveals
she did not take the eleven o ´clock pills
the son forgets to live
like everybody else
ought to do
my language native begins to fizzle
slip by hands my
a sentence lighted out
like a day crumbling
a schedule´s blurry
I must be convinced
that I scribbled this
if not more times
a reaping of times
for better burdens
rests aside her Chopra pamphlets
Red flu walks from the nose to the teeth
following a class of frustrated
RainListen to the pitter patter of the rain,
Feel the rain drop kissing your cheeks,
As you step on the pavement awash with mud;
Witness the rain curtains announcing the play,
And observe the breathtaking canvas of our nature.
Look at the man with his white umbrella,
Listen to him humming softly in his bulky blue boots;
As he dances his tale to the universe,
The thunder rumbles for him,
And lightning flicks the camera for him.
Observe the children splashing in the puddles,
And notice the rain caressing their heart;
As the rain drop trickles down their rosy cheeks,
The breeze brushes their fears away,
And the trees sway to applaud their laughter.
Doze off on the wet grass after the summer rain,
And sniff the refreshing scent of damp nature;
Listen to the birds tweet and the frogs croak,
And the orchestra of the crickets under the trickling leaf;
Gaze at the clouds wandering in the blue sky,
And smile at the summer sun hiding behind the clouds.
I am the haiku of my smiles,
The limerick of my frowns,
The sonnet of my love stories,
And the couplet of my thoughts.
I am a ticking time bomb;
And poems are the fragments of my blood,
Mixed with the immortality of my soul,
Carved into every echoes in the universe.
I am never a story,
Never a lesson to be learnt,
Never a tale for you to boast;
I am the scorching flames burning in the cold winter,
I am a raging tsunami,
And I could engulf the hell out of you.
I am the everlasting scorching supernova,
I am a whole book of undecided thoughts,
I am your troubled curiosity,
And every improbability in this universe.
I am the paradox of my own time line,
The undefined term in your mere dictionary,
And the infinite definitions of my own thoughts.
Futures of molten matronsGreased underskins
brimming with the pride
of eternal omnipotence
and skilled fingers
where the offspring-shaped
by the whims and
tantrums of the fanciful authority.
We know how will the curtains roll out
like a film bowing out:
That steam huffing out of the skulls
will not be water:
brains do not scent out
and the bucket
we will carry
on the days long(climates-long)
trek back to home
will still gush on
about the wonders
of boiling lands
where waters slaughter eyecones
and minds shut down
as nothing more than
"what a wonderful change of pace
So will say the litre
of abuse arrogance
To you with glass shard heart and paper skin You will climb and mount his lips and taste every syllable of his words just to find a space where you could fit in; you will press your fingers onto symphonies of black and white cacophonous outrage just because your mind is a cosmic explosion and a catastrophic cyclop. You're a shipwreck that crushes yourself into graveyards and you cry yourself into a smudged mascara and glassy eyed mess just to hope for one day you'll justify your existence without hurting yourself anymore. And when your tornado eyes come gushing down in watershed tears at every nightfall, you will climb behind brick walls and tear stained diaries and cry and blame the world and demand an ocean of apologies.
Even so, the world will only give you silence. I'm sorry the war had not ended for you. I'm sorry you had to cry in asphalt dust and gun fire smoke. I'm sorry you're suffocated in liquor fumes because n
To you who write until you bleed and cry and diei. You aren't the ruins of Greece.
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or
ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into
your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands
and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is
creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.
ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.
You don't have to get why your wounds rot like
the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others
have bowstring smile and pretty eyes all the
damn time. You don't have to know why your
musical box blasts in gunfires and thunderbolts
while other have rose tattoos exploding in fierce
fireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. You
can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails and
scraped metallic heart. You can't love yourse
'Cause I got mine.|
HomeNever forget where
"...there is no righteous path. It's just people trying to do their best in a world where it's far too easy to do your worst." - Castiel, "Supernatural"
My passion is getting the most out of every minute.