Dream

Slowly, you lean in,
and our lips brush.
A question.
Well, I have my answer.

I pull you close,
and kiss you,
as I’ve always dreamed of doing.
Dreamed…

You wrap your arms around me,
and I hold you tightly.
This is too good to be true.
Too good…

It cannot be real,
but it is.
So real, so here.
Happening…

I never imagined it would happen,
but it has.
You’re really here,
and you’re loving me.

But what’s that feeling,
that lightness in my limbs?
This feels like a dream.
A dream…

I sit up,
awake, alive,
and alone.
All alone…

Romanticide For A Dream

Who do I love?
The one in my dreams.
You have no shape,
no appearance,
but I love you the same.

I dream of you every night,
I serenade you in my writings.
Every thought I have,
is of you.
And only you.

But why?
Why do you haunt me?
I don't even know who you are,
and I will never meet you,
and you will never love me back.

This love,
will be the death of me,
yet I am powerless to stop it.
This is torment,
yet I love it.

Because you are always here.
You are always with me.
And in my fantasies,
I can imagine
that you love me.


---------------------------


Bleh. Lately I've been writing so many weird, crappy love poems. I suppose it's my way of ranting :?

Selfishness

Don't hurt,
it makes me hurt.
Don't cry,
'cause I may join you.
Don't despair,
I can't stand to watch.

I never knew you hurt,
I could never see it,
Until, one day,
I caught a glimpse.
I saw so much pain.
My heart began to ache,
and it didn't stop.

Selfishly I wish,
for you to be happy.
It's painful
to watch you die.
I want you to be alright,
don't cry anymore.
Please, don't.
I can't stand it.

Starlit Sea

The starlit sea,
calls to me,
and I answer,
tenderly.

I wish to be,
flying free,
upon that dreamy,
starlit sea.

To The Falling

To the falling, the fallen,
the despairing dreamer,
devoid of hope.
Ready to quit.

Don't.
Dry your eyes,
and pick yourself up.

Hold on to hope
and dream.

YOuv'e got some really good poems there! keep up the groovy world - there sad and deppressing BUT very true! xx

Life Is Dead

Life is dead,
and death be gone.
Lunatics dare
to go on.

Would that all
that unloved be,
danced in love;
such misery.

If we die,
and fail to end,
would our soul
the universe rend?

Can we not,
but hope for tears?
Delivering us
from lengthy fears.

Once again,
we serenade.
Hide from the sun,
in deadly shade.

End

And then the end.
No more, the world.
It is simply over,
and over.

Or was it always?
A lifeless existence
from beginning to end.
Once and always.

And so we die,
like millions before us.
Dead from birth,
and alive just before death.

Oblivion We Know

"Dead," says the bent, dry old man,
building coffins by the candy stand.
And confusion ensues, from those still alive,
"Why into oblivion did he dive?"

Whispers of suicide, and where he went;
at least, we're damn sure that was his intent.
On shimmering wings, downward he flies,
ignoring our selfish, angry cries.

Sense for a lunatic, life for the one,
In the end we die, it is all done.
No point in learning, in trying to live,
In crying and singing, and all that we give.

--


Er, this was an English assignment. She gave us a list of words to use.

Bug

Once upon a time,
in a land that no one knows.
There lived a little bug,
in a place where nothing grows.

History remembers,
his story not at all.
Though his tale will sing,
of a good kingdom's fall.

Once upon a time,
in a land that no one knows.
A little bug was pinpointed,
as the center of our woes.

Corruption sung
of deadly woes.
Point of this poem?
No one knows.

Darkness

So they stand, by and by,
on the sidelines and watch.
They call it madness,
we choose to look upon it as
normality of a sort.

After all, the world is strange.
But don't we all know it?
You are born, live your life,
your dawdling, pointless life,
and then you die.
Your whole existence
ceases to matter at all.

Is there really a point?
In all technicalities,
it is over before it even began.
Darkness will be the only constant,
forever and tomorrow.

My Hate

My love left me for another.
A more loving being.
All that was left,
on that cold, lonely day,
was my hate.

My love came back to me,
a few months after.
Life was beautiful,
and I forgot my hate.
I didn't need it.

My love left me, once again,
and this time for good.
Once again, in my despair,
hate came, with arms wide open.
Who am I, to turn it away?

Contact

This is the age of separation.
Humanity has put up with closeness for long enough.
We are making up for those torturous years of contact each day.

The sword is dead,
we choose to distance ourselves from our enemies,
hence the invention of the gun.

Conversation is dying,
after all, we have computers and phones now.
No need to see our friends' faces.

The only thing that seems to remain,
is the small comfort of an embrace
on a rainy day filled to the brim with despair.
We cannot remove contact from our lives,
without something deep down inside suffering.

Rise

Hot air rises,
but why?
Perhaps there's some
complicated
scientific
reason.
I, however,
think that hot air rises
to get away
from the cold
of humanity.

Dreams

My dreams rot
in my mind;

they are a bittersweet gift
from my imagination;

the product of
a life unlived.

Fragmented imagery dances
through my mind,

I can see everything
and nothing.

Infinity before me
and emptiness around me.

My dreams,
my life,
are nothing now but dust,
floating in the gentle breeze.