Sometimes other worlds, other lives, call out to me, beckon me, so loudly I turn around to look. But my name passes over dead pages, dead words, dead languages. How can a sentence make more sense the less it means anything at all? Ignorance is bliss only after the fact. Reality is bittersweet, but so are dreams. Who am I is not the question. Why is never the answer. A lie is the only truth I believe in. God is dead. I heard that elsewhere. Maybe true, the idea at least. Give me something else, something inspired. I would believe anything that breathed color into the world. I would fly into a painting if I could. I would live my life over and over for an eternity. That is an ode to the nightingale.
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Poetrysuppose Truth was a woman... * * * A collection of poems & thoughts about life and death and everything in between. * * * Disclaimer: Everything you read here was collected directly from my notes and journals, so please excuse any excess passion or...
