I have realized that in life you need to want it all,the good and the bad . But i also have realized that when life becomes brutal, you need to be even more brutal and merciless. People who survive aren't those who wait for opportunities, it's those who are ruthless enough to take it all.
Your dreams are your identity, it is what defines you. You need to know that not everyone will understand it,or give you credit for the hardwork you've put towards it. Not everyone will welcome your dream, and recognize it and encourage you. If you believe in it,that's enough because if you give up. You're giving up who you are,your sole purpose of existence.
What if we lived in a world with no limitations , Where everyone believed all is possible, What if we already have that world ,in the pages Of every book,our mind runs wild like fire In our minds We jump from one rooftop to another, We have wings and we soar as high as we want to, We love unconditionally and we're loved We're the conquerors, We tread on the serpents We trample the vicious lions We overcome all obstacles.
What if the pages became our reality. Maybe then we'll realize What we can imagine, can come to pass.
Poetry, did you miss me? I'd been away to bleach my metaphors, for the love that you personify. I am a pessimist, a pathetic paradox of alliterations, driven by paranoia, a pointless prose before your pricky poems, but blanch my metaphors I couldn't, for with a palette so pallid, how'd I be your muse?
Poetry, you are a plant, bred from my thoughts, you grow as we go, piercing and winding, embellished with flowers so beautiful - a caricature of my toxic mind, but barren hearts relish the venom of lust, for it is quite a charade to the elixir of your love, so I pluck them away, press them between the pages of my journal, and send them to hypocrites who fail to romanticize the idea of loving thorns.
Poetry, you fill my voids, and caress my face with such endearment that the nothing that I've been staring at becomes everything that will never leave me alone. I am a victim of my past, you, my current salvation, but I'm a slave, a coward who hands over her deity to be the music for the dance of her demons.
Poetry, would you steal for me? The light of countless stars, without an inch of the dark; clouds of prejudice hang from my eyelashes and I tell you that you aren't worth the hype for you couldn't even extract the enchantments of starlight, but for all that I fail to be, all that you ever tell me is that I was more than enough.
Poetry, you are an ocean, a high tide on a full moon, and I a ship crossing the bar, while craving for the quiet. Healing hurts yet my mast fails to be lulled into the abyss of the night, and my sails roar wildly with the ebb of the waves, refusing to be run around. When have I not condemned your kindness, so I do again, even when a wrecked ship, you voyage through the lane.
Poetry, you are ice, that burns with a rage so devastatingly beautiful that you bewitch even the happy souls to admire the pain in your elegies, and foxes in your fables, a riddle full of manipulations and interpretations, your strength is dispersed at every face of a Rubik's cube, but what is it, if I fail to realize it, so all your are - are not pearls that irk me - but hollow oyster shells that confuse thee.
Poetry, what fold is it, where colors paint the night, oceans transition into ice, the wind plans the flowers' demise and along cuddle all my crimes? You ask me if I'd unfold you and try again, and I answer you by unfolding and crumbling and throwing the paper away. On a new sheet, I write, "Poetry, did you miss me?"