The pessimist lived,
Their limbs were cut.
They could travel no more.
They could act no more,
Could think no more.
Therefore,
Hope no more.
The optimist died,
At the brink of their new world,
The first glimpse of the real sky.
The hedonist lived on,
Shoulders dropped,
Mind clouded by all the
Clicks and clacks,
All the rage they've built.
The feeble drive of continuity.
Who knows?
The Hedo was optimistic once,
An optimist he remains at heart.
For true indifference exists not
And the carnival serves as
The masquerade of a hopeful mind.
Fancy the joy,
The lashes,
The bedsheets tugging
soaked complexions,
The admiration
The worship
The servile frame.
The longevity.
In the end,
It's the road everyone trots.
Eventually, constantly.
First
An optimist of truer emotions,
Then the cynicism sinks into the pleasure-house.
A more feline approach to the changing luck.
And someday
Someone drags you out of mud,
The tub of tranquilizing substances.
Someone showed you the world again,
They show you the innocence
Behind leaves in autumn,
The blind-spot-parking-lot of neons.
They point you a way between mirrors.
Until the calamity
Put its mask on
And brought the axe.
Some live on in privacy and dread.
They dread the end of boredom.
Few keep on spinning
As the last dance of yearning.
Eventually they fall into the first category...
Me?
Oh, lassy.
What did I told you?
A wheel can only roll a billion times,
Before it falls off.
I think I'm way past that.
YOU ARE READING
It's three in the morning.
PoetryI wanted to resonate some undefined emotions that ain't as tacky as a word. A small collection of poems I wrote when I could not sleep. Or (mostly) of my personal experiences.
