To read a poemIs to see light where there is darknessIs to hear silence where there is noiseIs to dance where there is no musicIs to sing where the only instrument is wordsAnd the stirring, impassioned pauses
I can’t remember the poemThat pierced through my heartIt was the saddest I heardOf all truths ever spokenIt left a scar in meA wound that doesn’t healBut the words are forgottenSo is a big part of me
I read for pleasureIn search of fictional worldsTo enrich my truths
Real is overratedNo way in my life is that the gistI’d be everything I am notIf I were a fictionist
Words are music to the ears, alone or together, with or without melody.
And because the world is too big and time is too short and you only have one life to live, read!
Blank pages are cruelPure torture in white or beigeBut how else to start
But the sun will rise the day after tomorrowA millennium without us silences our last echoTo tiny fragments even our plastics are reducedIn Eden Reincarnate all life but ours is renewed
I exaggerateThere is a lie in my truthLook! My soul is blue
I crouch in cornersThe infection is widespreadLove epidemic
Does my soul sufferWhen my body breaks downWhen I feel mortalWhen my body is weakDoes the soul rejoiceThe end is near
No music in the raindropsNo clouds with silver liningTorrents of sorrowsHorror in streams
Every story is a ride to some place and time other than here and now. Buried in an armchair, reclined on a couch, prostrate on your bed, or glued to your desk, you can go places and travel through time.
The heart is a repository of emotions–real, imagined, and invented, owned and borrowed, past, present, future–and there in your chest, operating at an average of 80 beats per minute at rest, is a heart that has stories to tell.
A blank page is no empty space. It is brimming with potential… It is a masterpiece in waiting — yours.