I had a dream on pen and paper,
I put it down and something comes to mind.
It seems like fantasy is just a big fat lie and reality is the painting on my wallpaper.
I love letters, of course I'm a writer.
Writing the words until my hands bleed in its sweat.
Nothing really meaningful,
I just put it down as a poet.
All words are beautiful but I like dark ones.
They make the pages a little colorful.
Life, love, birth, death...
The four letter-words surrounding our breath.
Maybe we won't have the four but we'll definitely witness, the last and the first.
In all the numbers and letters under the sky so blue.
Right now, I see lies but pretend they're true.
I'll still tell you the lies aren't true.
Put it on a book and it'll still be banned.
Then those that read still can't see and the blind with ears can feel the gravity of words at the tip of their hand.
Although, they know the message, they can't even say it.
You are too adamant on the fact that they're incapable and different.
I had a dream on pen and paper,
I put it down and something comes to mind.
Writers, readers, we are all masterminds.
Is it the messages that they're still unable to get,
Or the dot, dot, dot that replace the words in my head?
It's like reality is just a big fat lie or is everything just fantasy?
YOU ARE READING
The Light In Me
PoetryThe first page of a new anthology I hear the sound of my favorite words Like art, music and photography. I see the footprints of my past and thoughts. Feeling of excitement from my fingertips The words of understanding from my bare lips. I can'...
