These visceral vision are still haunting my mind.
Hours after I awake they still shine within my eyes.
Or maybe now I’m really fast asleep
And those before truly exist.
I do notice I am learning lessons at least in my dreams.
Because the ones in waking life I still ignore
Even though I know better.
It’s like an alter ego that has all the final say in my actions.
Well at least my mind is still my own creation while awake
But it’s my eyes I’m worried about.
I know they only see 10% of what’s actually around us.
How can any of us truly know if what our minds color in
Isn’t only our imaginations.
Or is there any difference at all?
What does one do,
When their feelings are real,
But the one they are towards,
Doesn’t know how you feel?
The answer seems easy,
But there’s too much at stake,
I’ve been wondering if,
It’s a risk I should take.
Given time, questions will unfold
And show the answers held within them.
(I wrote this poem few years ago)
A lonely girl wanders the world
Searching for her poor lost soul
Waiting for lightning to strike her heart
Waiting for thunder to tear her apart
She’s never felt a butterfly’s flutter
Simple words always made her stutter
A tortured heart with the soul of a child
A nervous laugh and a beautiful smile
The neighborhood boys with jokes all the same
Pulling her hair and calling her names
Taking more than she ever could bare
Feeling the rip long after the tear
Millions of people suffer day after day
Hatred and destruction is what they say
Women are from Venus, men from Mars
and she’s just a local girl with local scars
Lower me into the depths of hell,
that is all I wish to feel.
Bury me in the deepest dark
and to my soul appeal.
Paint me in the summery sunshine
with colors brilliant and real.
Taint my skies with the brightest blue
and seal it, for the paint will peel
Take me to your heaven
And show me your hell
And I promise to love you
A little more than I usually do
By now she imagines
that her envy must have a flavor
Bitter orange and arsenic,
or apple peels and dust
It’s hard to be content
when she sees better all around
Unattainable, out of reach,
like sweet ripe fruit just above her head
she can’t change anything real, so
she will change her hair, change her dress, change her ideas
And hope nobody notices the plain old her
still hiding underneath
she feels like a brown-grey caterpillar
so how come, after so many years
a butterfly yet?