A thousand places to go
But they choose to live inside their head.
The novelist cursed with an X-ray vision into people's souls
And their time,
How it was frozen,
Into prologue
Told through the lovers' point of view.
They peek into their magnifying glass
To observe the ants building their colonies
And imagine the queen, in her shoes,
How it feels to be served.
They write a chapter about true love's kiss
When there isn't a time they inhaled its rose-scented mist,
No advances to note
No names to treasure.
Unable to shed all of their tears
For an epilogue
Which uncovered two skeletons embracing six feet below.
The novelist ponders if the living would pay their respects
And don their saddest black dress
And write a thousand proses,
A thousand poetry
As great as the novelist's magnum opus they deem to be.
Nobody calls them the best for playing witty with words
Neither fitting for being a specimen to observe.
Nobody lined up for a contest
To see who could place the finest arrangement of lexicons
Detailing the novelist's being.
Always a player,
Never the game.
Always the archer,
Never the aim.
They rule out their madness
In an attempt to stay sane.
To rattle nickels in a jar isn't what they dream
But to be someone's dream that they dream they will answer their pleas.
Haven't they done enough for this world?
All their sweat and blood,
The dirt in their nails,
To dig the darkest parts of humanity's trails,
Eloquently speaking the language of their faults.
The light seems to fade from their hands
So will someone show them the way again?
Play a montage of things the novelist finds undesirable
And turn the angle around.
The world can heal
If everyone like them can be shown it can.
Can it?
Nonchalant - they will not fancy themselves as such,
When they have written a thousand proses,
A thousand poetry,
So much they berate their brains for allowing such space
So the mouth would behave.
They wonder if others have done the same.
Do others rule out their madness,
Because their beauty is pain?
So much they write as a substitute
Implying to wear the coat of masochism,
The last garment to art's fit.
Is there any more to say,
Than wanting to be an embodiment of grace?
The maiden in the ballads
Envied by the gods
That a hero has to save them
From their wrath
Against all odds.
The soldier with unmeasurable valor
The cosmos beyond galore
Seas that part at their presence
Moon unveiling all of its crescent.
They had prayed too much,
They have seen great walls
To transcribe every encrypts carved in their stoned-halls.
Play out what they think
Someone's life goes
Always assume contentment
To make up for their own lows.
Nothing about their story
Fits on a poet's glove
Passions engraved in mortality
Failed the quest
To find the love
They pour in their worlds.
The world is too cruel
To collide with their own
Since that is the case,
They'll crawl back to their home.
Is it too much to ask
That the novelist
Be a novel,
The basis,
The model?
To shed the weight off their shoulders.
Too tasteful to be real
So they write what they feel.
A thousand places to go
But their head provides the home
To their wonders
And their woes.
P.S. just found a post that really encapsulates this poem I'm screaming (ctto)
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Graveyard of Reveries
Poetry"Dig all the gravestones if you can Have a wonderful night in this rotting land A rollercoaster ride in dark fantasy Welcome to my graveyard of reveries" A random collection of poems written by a mentally unstable 17-year-old. pls be nice :) COVER B...
