OUR ORIGINAL POETRY: Share It Here

Work Of Art

"
This life of ours is such an illusion
Its every corner full of delusion

when we think happiness is near
What holds us down is fear

Every Step Forward Depends on Speed
Every Person we meet from another creed

Sometimes its easy, Sometimes its Hard
Just like the flip of a random card

Donot let anything hold you back
Always be ready like a travellers pack

My advice to you; Find things that matter
In this blinding world of endless chatter

On Every Moment Give all your Best
To live this life in its finest zest

Live In the moment, not the past
With roaring sails and a high mast

Work Your Best, Leave Nothing to Fate
Dont have any room for envy and hate

Try to be a eagle that flies
Only then you might touch the skies

No Matter How much things get tight
Never go down without putting a fight

Focus on the Journey not the End
Be vary of how your time is spent

From this World when you do depart
Let your story turn to a work of art "

She sits there,
Contemplating how it's going to work
How she is going to go in public.
Preparing her script.
For she is an actress,
And the public is her stage.
Her acts were beautiful,
But they were just acts.
Convincing others with her persuasive words,
That she was ok.
But honestly,
She wasn't.
For she was a lone actress,
Who was truly beautifully different,
But was too scared,
To reveal her true beauty.


She sits there,
Contemplating how it's going to work
How she is going to go in public.
Preparing her script.
For she is an actress,
And the public is her stage.
Her acts were beautiful,
But they were just acts.
No truth behind them,
Just what others want to hear.
For she was too scared,
Too scared to unveil.
She hid the scars,
Hid the pain,
The scared little girl.....
The actress on the other hand,
Why she was a strong, confident woman,
The act was believable,
Maybe too believable.
For when every person believed the act,
She broke down,
Realizing that no one understood her...
But maybe this act was her saviour,
Or maybe this act was her end

How Much

A broken slide,how much happy can it be when the broken dreams of little children company it?

A cat who could not prevent itself to hook up its nails to a little boy, how much can it make a little child cry?

A sun which burns with aspiration,how can it be happy when the smiling flowers does not bloom?

And us dear sky , how can we stay blue when we could not meet you and me, the bluest sea?

Fault lines.

Sometimes I wonder
if it's still worth it.
You say wonderful things,
but act inconsistent.

Justifying my emotional
fluctuatoi​ns

As the cause of
your wavering behaviors.

Creating this vicious cycle
in over four...five seasons.

But now I learn
that Love wears out.
And still it's me
called out.

Is it my fault to doubt?
Or your fault for taking
control?

Is this even about
the faults?

Or we're really trying
for something
that might
work?

Perception remains
to uncover itself satirically
for people like me
it mocks and abuses like a denatured mother that starves its children of sweet milk
it makes everything seem vigorous and violent
It comes and goes as it pleases
but forever remains in a state of putrefaction
that shall keep me docile
around everyone I meet
until this perception is disintegrated
and another is induced with error and sweet warm milk
that could and would visit my tongue
and let it twist in warmth
in comfort
a thing that has been long forgotten
for sacrifices
of the martyr
and blends absurdity with commonness
it looks like a Sunday sky at noon
Perception
when perfection
and precedent perspectives stuffed
love in my brain like an ill soggy rag
in a cup
my mind that once was a reflection
of a soft bundle of yarn
is now a straining red string
I am going
I am going
I am gone

All I can do is breathe.

One inhale after another.

It's starting to get harder

Every time you glance my way.

Suddenly I'm drowning in your

Sea blue eyes.

I was incapable of seeing when I met you:
Anchored
by gravity to the floor of a strangers apartment,
riding amnesia and unconsciousness by the glare of a faux flame stove. An object of itching
Acquired from mud-thickened coffee.
Restless. Restless.
that nervous tick,
breath
restless
Lukewarm flames left welts on Pinocchio's chest,
tube feeding warmth to the patter that determined if he was in fact a real boy.
rest

My konundrum

Sad of everyday

See you destroy your life

As terminal as you are,

you should embrace your life

Hug your kids, hug me,

your wife

my filthy heart bleeds nothing but misery
for I have filled it with enough mistrust and anger
If I was in control of it,I would have made it bleed diamonds.
My filthy heart I try to drain it of its dirt
But it's very essence is filled with unknown hurt
If immortality is a non existing concept
Then conquering my filthy heart is out of the question
For reasons not known and reasons not understood
My heart has darkened itself
I do not believe a shining knight will come brighten it,
But I do think I myself will be its saviour
No castles or swords,just coming to terms with my soul.

Hour glass upon the wall

Filling up as my tears fall

All the way down to nearly an hour

Blooming like a withered flower

Pain and misery

Too much to bear

No matter what is always there.