Maybe one day I’ll write a poem that is mine.
Not just something that, when reviewed,
Is just a web, weaving itself around me.
A conflicting web of makeshift and distant feelings,
High intentions and remote ideas.
Something mine, with my feelings, and my thoughts.
Without thinking,
Without pretending,
Without wanting.
Just pristine feelings in this exact moment.
Maybe then they can see me as I was.
And maybe then they can tell me who I am not.
But how can we be?
Are we not just shadows and reflections
Of something we can’t reach?
Afterthoughts with no reality —
Reflections of unreality.
Rest, my heart, and sleep.
Silence is without reason or cause,
It just needs the immense quiet night.
Before the world wakes up,
And all is transposed again.
Images from pixabay