The illusion of realityIs this the real world we see?Or is it just an illusion of reality?Will death be the thing to set us free?Or is that just a weird mentality?Is life just an illusion?Do we perhaps preserve things differently?And is this all just a big delusion?We want the people to think freeBut can they be free if they need to follow the rules?Can they break free,Without being branded as fools?If we want to know moreAnd learn the real truthWe have to venture in the unknown moreA wise man doesn't take the road everybody seesA wise man travels off the road and leaves a track
TearsFeel the rain dripping on your faceSitting somewhere in an unknown placeYou might just had your heart brokenThose feelings of yours go unspokenLet the rain wash your pain awayLet it wash away and find your wayLet the rain slowly heal your woundsIt heals your heart and will hide your woundsThe rain will stay with you for yearsIt's one of those things that always caresBecause in the rain nobody will see your tears
Beautiful dayForget all the problems from the past,Life sometimes just goes too fast.Don't blink, because it can be over in a flash,It might be fast, but don't do anything too rash.The future will always be uncertainIt stands before you like a big dark curtain.You will always carry the past with youBut don't let it turn you blue.Follow your dreams and hopesDon't get dragged down by some dopesJust follow your own wayEven when all turns grayYou might not feel like doing that on a rainy dayBut luckily for youToday looks like it will be a beautiful day
Stars in the nightThe sun is just a star,Like the others we can see from afar.The sun is a source of life and light,So why not the other stars we see at night?Countless other worlds could exist.They might be similar to ours but with a twist.So maybe when we look up at the sky,There might be someone looking back from up high.There's more to this universe than we know,But we are uncovering it's secrets, even if it's going slow.
PassionPassion is like a flame,It's never the same.It will bring inspiration,It can bring frustration.Passion can make you create,It can irritate.It can destroy,It can bring joy.It can make you feel sad,It can make you go mad.It can make you smile,It will make your time worthwhile.Passion is what drives us,It's what makes us work towards success.The meaning of passion is up to yourself,Just like my meaning is up to myself.But remember that your passion helps you realize your dream,And remember that even if you are working hard, you should ''carpe diem''.
A poem about loveLove consists out of painLove consists out of desireLove is what I admireLove always fights against my brainLove is despisingLove is passionLove is not a piece of fashionLove is always surprisingNone of these things are untrueLove is enough to make one weepThat is love as it seemsYet when I think of youI simply can’t fall asleepSince life is finally better, than in my own dreams
ShynessEverybody knows that feelingLooking at somebody half dreamingThinking about what it would be likeIf the two of you were alikeWe don't want to face rejectionFearing that we worsen our self reflectionWhen we talk to them all we can do is stutterSometimes we just need a little courageEverybody has courage no matter what their ageSo whenever you're feeling shyDon't just stand there and sighRemember that just 20 seconds is enoughEven if it's all just bluffBelieve in yourselfCause when it comes to loveYou are the only person that could beat yourself
The best in meSoft lines freshly written slandered all over the paperFresh words in the atrocious handwriting of its creatorDrops of ink besmirch this once so lovely wooden tableAs sunlight falls on it on a warm day in AprilTapping of one’s fingers to the rhythm of these very linesPondering if this truly is what it definesAs the pen scratches over that sheet of paperUntil the rhyme is finally to the liking of its shaperAnd when asked why he wrote that simple little pieceIf he thought about writing it or if it was just a simple capriceHe smiles as he gives an answer to which everybody will agree’’I do it simply because it brings out the best in me.’’
A pencilA pencil is a small thingIrrelevant to mostBut it can create anythingIt can create images of a beautiful coastIt creates images that can change your lifeIt creates images that will withstand timeIt creates words that make you feel aliveIt creates words that can describe a crimeIt tells a story of the pastWhile looking forward to the futureA pencil shows you a world which is quite vastIt can create images that are quite obscureA pencil can defeat a swordBut it can also create a swordSo if you're ever downAnd you are sitting in your room with a frownPick up a pencilAnd let it guide you to a worldBeyond your wildest dreams
Breaking Through□□□ T E A R □□□□□□□□□□□□□ D O W N □□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□ E A C H □□□□□□□□□□□□□W A L L □□□□
Short and SweetPainting cardinalsThe artist is unawareOf her own beauty
WondermentSome days, I find myself counting the s e c o n d s and the thump thump thump of my heart and pondering quietly what I could have should have would have said were I better braver stronger and a lot l e s s like me but all I can manage now is . . . . . . . I'm sorry I miss you I love you i love you i love you
moonsongthe crescent moons bitten into my palmsbreak apart the hard worn lines writtenthere. a fortune teller told meit was just a matter of time before myuniverse crashed in on itselfand my stars ripped themselves apart.your gray-sky-eyes swallowed me wholeand i fell down, down, downwhile your piano key fingers playedmy melody one last time.
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universewhere your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair blackbecause I hated being a natural blue.I’ll teach you to play guitarand you’ll show me how to fly,scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,a tandem bike going nowhere.I’ll know you by the gentlenessof your fingertips and you’ll needno identifier but the slant of my handwriting,because, world to world, some things don’t change.
Purpose.Purpose.What would a story be?If there was no one there to read it.What would dreams be?If there was no one there to conceive it.What would a picture be?If there was no one there to see it.What would a secret be?If there was no one there to keep it.What would love be?If there was no one there to feel it.What would a song be?If there was no one there to sing it.What would the truth be?If there was no one there to admit it.What would advice be?If there was no one there to give it.What would life be?If there was no one there to live it.Kela Lewis-Morin
In absence of a poem.I chewed my pen to the niband swallowed the ink thoughtlessly,but no matter how long I thought,I couldn't say what you mean to me.I tried, I tried and I tested,every word in my diminutive range,but I screwed up more pieces of paperand happened upon something strange;I noticed words, which have served me,for all of my formative years,had no power to convey my gratitudefor the times that you dried my tears.Whenever I doubt myself (often),You're the one who tells me I'm wrongYou lift up my chin and remind me, waitfor the good things that will come along.I can't find a way to express howyou are the saving grace in my head.So words can't tell you how I love you -I hope my silence will tell you instead.
Summertimeit'sriding down cracked-asphalt roads,sweet tea beside you in the consolewhile you sit, knees bent back,languidly slouched so your toescan soak up the sun heating the windshield,making the dashboard almostburn your tender solesif not for the cooling windknotting your hairlike the fingers of a drunken loverit’sthe way the intercostalis still lukewarm at night;the memories made at one a.m.staring down hungry herons,shrieking like children whensomethingbrushes its slime against your toes,and drying off in the stern breezethat curls your hairso you don’t soak the seatsof the sand-floored van you borrowedto show your friends the nightlifeit'sthe scent of super-heated asphaltscorching the bottomsof your knock-off Rainbowsas you weave, in Daisy’s cut-offsand an earth-toned spaghetti strap,through the glistening crowdof foreigners, vendors and locals,and meander around shady tentspeddling everything from hand-crafted,pearl-and-turquoise wired
Between Heaven and HellEveryone has a story to tellThe time and place the falls from grace.We all walk at our own paceforever attempting to win the illusionary race.So I took the time, to sit and rewind....granted pause to the cause, reflections of the mind.Years upon years slowly drifted on by...Journeys left behind slumbering alongside the road of unknown,collecting dirt and debris, anxiously awaiting to be set free, but could not flee...no one to save me and turn the key.Everything has a time and a place within the enchanted space.A story to tell of heaven and hell...Realise this upon states of bliss,In the beginning we all fell--in the end we all shall fall.Can no longer ignore the ancient call.
Messsage in a bottleSometimes people cry out for help,I think we all have witnessed it,We watch them break,We watch their tears,And we see something in their eyes,The last piece of hope,The hope that as well could be a message in a bottle.Who will ever know if someone noticed that tiny little bottle in the ocean,Or if they did,Did they pick it up?I have seen a lot of bottles in my time,And most of the time I pick them up,But I notice quite a few times I don´t,It is like they become invisible,Even if they scream loudly right in front of you,I think something is wrong,Why do we leave the bottle in the ocean?I clearly can see they need help,And I see it,I really do,How can you pretend not to?
words for the anxiousinescapable fingers curled cage upon her facelips, red and parted, shine through phalangeal barsgentle nostril flair as she expels airand inhalesfluttering hair draped, touching tangled thoughts draining darkness creeps up her throat , encompassingher whole being to shake muscles aching and tensed bymuffled murmurs (indecipherable, unimportant)her trembling chingiving in to terror of some unknown threat still present and reflected in wet eyestears trapped in surface tension shimmergasp over the lump in her throat obstacles for oxygenmind is losinglost
StarlightI walk along a road of dreamspaved withexpectations andwishesstepping on stones of starry-eyedwonderandregretalive for all my failings andcontent for my lack of fulfillmentalways uplifted and upliftingupon this winding, wendingslow-spiral upwardsTreading on hope and faith with whatgraceI can manageas awash in lucidityas the stellar nurseries of mychildhoodWould you believe that I saw it all with myheart,not my eyes?
Almost (beautiful)I am not perfect not like this sunrise and I shall not live half as long as the sun nor shall I ever sing as softly as does the wind through my hair but I still believe that I can be
misunderstandings left. youwhen we finally felt right, turns out, we were wrong. I fell.
DisintegratingI was never one of the birds,Just silly enough to look into the skyAnd pretend.There's a man I know; he's forgotten a piece of himself, I think.He says he can't fold the butterflies anymore.He's lying, I promiseAnd I love him anyway.I never understood him when he said I was made of soot.The hurricane boy's at my window again. HeComes to me late at night and taps on the glass."The weather is so lovely this evening," he tells me.I go outside and he trades me his rainwater tearsFor all the beats my heart has skipped.He keeps them in manilla envelopes and hides themUnder his bed.I've become addicted to the dreaming, to make-believing I'm blind and deaf for a little while.It's starting to be too difficult for me to tell which is wakingAnd which is sleeping any longer.My chronic day-dreamingIs getting worse. I can't even remember them, and I'm losing trackOf the days.Maybe if I close me eyesFor just a few minutes more.
because i have toimpaled& wreaking havoc on theseyoung bonesmore than endorphins &planes out of controlpretending that ifnot-so-masochisticallyi--p a r a l y z e d:a manifestationinstilled in bedsheets& ghosts
FaithSome times, I think I feel you r e a c h ing out for me in the stillness and the nightbut then I remember you're gone and where you've gone there is nothingto reach for not even me Or so, that's what they tell me