Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Meandering Self

Can’t find what I’m looking for
don’t understand all heard
Perhaps it’s a rogue mistake,
maybe it’ll happen again.
Oft than not words merge
even though the utterers do not.
In a herd, pushing through
trying to find the real you.
Masks, costumes, shades and more
covering the surface, engulfing the core.
Sunshine trapped in long before,
‘neath this disguise, offers relief sore.
Dreams mayn’t reality be,
reality mayn’t be pretty.
All that counts,
when, to that, we get down,
is if it keeps you happy.

1 comment:

  1. My hands reek of oil and turpentine, and colors of life splashed all over my scrubbed face.

    Every day break I struggle with the paint and the canvas. Pour out my passion on a piece of cloth with colours of my emotions.

    And when the sun goes down, I drag my beauties to the bazzar, where I sit like a begger and people throw a few chunks of gold in exchange of my love.

    I greedily pick up the shining coins and seek solace in the shade of the nearest tavern. And this is what I find.

    Alas! I sold my passion,
    Just for a cup of wine!

    Another day rises,
    And I pick up my brush,
    Dip it in a mix of my sweat, tears and blood.
    And start the dance of life once again.


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