My dreams are a cacophony of lies and truths, and half-truths. I cannot tell them apart, aside from days when I'm alive but not living. And when I look at the heaven's teardrops and the grayness of your face, I remember I can dream but never get. And when melancholy possess my body like a second soul, so familiar and right, I think of all the flaws that form myself. Questions like why and why not will never really get answered. But so what? I still ask myself why and why not, and then suddenly, like a hammer to plastic, I realize it is not you - my death wish - who hold the answers. Rather, it is my demons and angels, roaming in my head and prancing in my conscience, that refuse to let me know.
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kāi
PoetryThoughts spared for the ones who love and hurt and smile and believe at the same time. © fourthrose 2015 | AL
