A world,
One hidden,
And only the true can see it.
It's not a perfect world,
Not even close.
It's a wonderful world though.
One of peaceful rains,
Of happy snowfalls,
Of gentle fires.
Fires of the soul,
Flames of the campfire.
But those sparks can catch.
So find this world,
And stomp on the embers.
Kill these flames,
Make this world perfect.
Then, once you're done,
Look around,
And see all the life you've killed.
Perfection will be the death of this world.
So don't kill it.
Don't make it perfect.
Don't find this world.
Leave it to its fate of flames.
Leave this world.
Don't search.
You can't see it anyway.
Only the pure can see it.
And the pure know to not look down.
The pure know not to look for this world.
They know to leave it to its fate.
To its twisted version of perfection.
The pure don't look,
Because they don't want to see the fire they let catch.
YOU ARE READING
Whats_it2you? Poems
PoesieJust a few random poems that I've written. Most of them are really short, and are confusing, but they're what I think and I want to share them. I also want to know honestly how good/bad they are.
