Your message crashes into the sun,
And you're hit on your knees by roadside,
And it all comes down to your mind,
What have you been doing your whole life?
The scorching feels of any feeling,
The mere acknowledgement of existence,
A path for the righteous to follow,
Were all an illusion for all the hollows.
The lone paths were all muddled with spites,
Some were condemned, some were forever.
The paths laid with the dreams of riches,
Maiden hopes of mutts were the chosen quivers.
As much as one could dive deep,
The depths have always been proven dark.
Some weren't able to make it back,
Some now live under its fearing arc.
A major part of letting lose the illusion,
And giving up to the potentials of one,
Lies in the damned sons of one's sorrows,
And the agony their consequences has done.
In the art of vain, thus all goes lost,
And none is saved and kept safe.
The intrinsic time we all live in perhaps,
Is a place instead, with all hopes of escape.
The world believe in the the highest one,
Their saviour, their lord and their father,
Cause they couldn't fathom a simple curiosity,
And name it one of the useless matters.
The silence in the centre of the storm,
None could be matched to it's beauty,
While a silence that follows regularly,
To maintain it, becomes one's whimsical duty.
Does your veils cover the naked lie?
Or do you bring water to your devil?
The keened parlours may break your mind,
But the nectar they serve, it's a new trouble.
The pleasure of letting go lies in the lies,
And their effects, slowly turning null.
As you give in yourself and unleash the restraints,
Suddenly to this world, you're abysmal.
Those who say it's wrong to be wrong,
To be what your inner self compels you to,
Are afraid of what might become of you,
That even god will shiver and think "What to do"
You run as you fleet and now you're hiding
From the people you were supposed to deny,
Those people who impose their demons on you
Now chase you whenever 'Their God' cry
The burnt scars on your skin are just marks,
The traumas in your head are invented by others.
It's like cold weather, it'll make you cold to sneeze,
And summers when the days seems to be forever.
Salvation is a vanity fair, churchs are brothels,
And the damned saints brings us through a trial.
The hopes you're fed are made with lies,
The water you drink is sucked from black tiles.
Broken times may spill your soul,
But to recollect it, it demands hope,
Hope to live further yet again,
And to fix the broken time with rope.
In the end you'll find, what you couldn't before
But before you could find it, it's too late.
Not that it matters since the life is spent,
Well or not, you still lie under a plate.
Having a belief is not a crime, do as you please,
But keep in mind the reason of your faith.
To find peace and a path in your own life,
To be a creator of lives, not to take.
Imposition of an entitlement for eternity,
Your goals seem to surpass your beliefs.
I thought you wanted to find solace in your life,
But instead you want to fake other's relief.
Not having a belief at all, it's a choice of life,
It's not a pet you keep and then bury when it's old.
You may find peace in the solitude alas,
Or you may die alone, naked and cold.
"Choose whatever you want, live with its consequences and don't ever interfere with someone else trying to find their own path.
Mind your own fucking business."
YOU ARE READING
A Quarrel in the Brain Park
PoetryJust some poems I wrote, at different points of my life. Hope you relate to them at some point. Also to remember, it's a collection of poems so there are many genres. See if you'll like either of them.
