falling into bliss seems nice,
without worries of day nor night,
being myself, without a price.
yet, stuck in the vanity of the mind,
is an action without benefits.
it's as pointless as the blind leading the blind,
lost in temperamental wine.
falling into a rabbit hole,
feels like something inevitable,
it's a slippery slope,
like rippling dominoes.
yet i want to take a prolonged breather,
if only for a second, to be a dreamer,
to live life with blithe.
but i don't want to waste my potential,
going psycho in the head,
gone too mental.
and i've asked myself this question a hundred times,
"is the promise of peace just a lie?
does fiction and reality have no cohesion?
why can't i live an elysian life,
without shattering myself into a million little shards?
is it really that bad, so tarnished,
that i can't truly have dreams,
without becoming an escapist?"
YOU ARE READING
amber daffodils (completed ✔️)
Poetry"i stood on the plutonium shores of the lake, where all the poets had went to die, the mountains bejeweled with snow. i saw nothing in the vast expanse, only the stars in a hazy trance, yet when the sun rose, and night came to a close, i saw marig...
