My system mooched for it all,
the breathlessness, the rushed bodily actinics, the flushed cheeks, the rowdy hair;
Like a blithe virtuoso stringing mindful tunes,
my nerves tingled, against my brawn,
my entire anatomy on fire,
it gave me the intuit,
the feelings of felicity,
the feeling of being dynamic,
the feeling of being a poet,
the feeling of setting those caged emotions free.
Rubatosis I felt, when I was her,
she was fire, she was sensational.
Then someone tried to vandalize her,
who was it? I didn't know,
but when she became my counterpart,
a myriad things I learnt.
Taught me, she did,
"It's all a facade,
princes belong to fairytales,
sunflowers, don't blossom in our land,
euphoria is unattainable,
artless creed is wherein they all spectre,
there's no 'happy ending', there's no ending at all."
A vicious cycle,
that's what she called living.
With her,
the feeling was gone, long gone.
Mature was it for sure,
the recklessness, the fearlessness, the audaciousness, was, but, what I missed.
So I closed my eyes,
let tenebrosity surround me,
I summoned them,
There they were,
she, in all her spectacular, radiant glory,
and, she, in her tamed, mature mannerisms.
a clear polarity,
if she was fire, the other was ice,
if she was all shades of spring and autumn,
the other had it all blue and grey,
and as their eyes met,
her's snug,
from all the love she had given and had gotten,
and her's hard and stern,
from all the love she had given...and had just given...
She was one of those,
"It's better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."
As her whilom, fordone self had abided by that,
love had left her, almost as if cupid had turned her a blind eye, then here she was.
They didn't like each other one bit,
one said life is short,
the other retorted,
"Sensibility and aloofness is desired here!"
" But life is short, let go!"
" It is indeed, make use of it, be careful."
" That's no life at all!"
And it went on,
the war,
between my spirited soul and my sober mind,
between me and me,
to stop, it has no intent,
my forever mayhem.
～
Hi readers,
Long time! Sorry for this super late update, I don't really have a solid reason for not updating earlier, so I'll just jump to the background of the poem.
A lot of us might be familiar with the idea of being at war with oneself, like varying ideas, contradictory thoughts, mixed desires, we're pretty varient within ourselves, hell, one can say we are inertly diverse, for me, I'm a complex mixture of a free, delulu, hopeless romantic soul, and a tsundere, practical, realist mind.
Sometimes it gets overbearing, a lot of things out there tempt my "soul", where my overly practical "mind" just goes, no shit. I end up following my soul's desires at times, while there are times, when I'm not brave enough to do so, and settle for what my practical mind asks me to do. Some choices are well made when they are practical, while some others, are better impulsively made. Put down a comment, if you go through something similar, or relate to this in some manner, that's it for now,
Bye!
YOU ARE READING
DWAM
Poetry"Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go...
