I believe in you
You are more than you feel
I believe in you,
Yes you need to believe in you,
I see you as a diamond soul,
When you see yourself as coal,
You think you weigh me down,
If I believe in goodness you are the reason,
Believe in all you can be,
I believe in you, trust me,
I'll stand by your side always,
I wish you would find your way,
There in your heart is a compass,
It points northwards to your purpose,
You'll find your home,
If you open your eyes you'll see you already belong,
You are unbreakable, how do you not see?
Believe me, there's more you can be,
You feel cornered, you feel defeat,
Shed a few tears, but then fight,
Lift your crown, remember who you are,
Smile, there really is nothing to fear
About the Creator
Swords and Feathers
My name is Ritesh D. Singde. I write spiritual, philosophical poems that are often heartfelt. I'm inspired emotionally by instrumental music that I translate into metaphors and poems/short stories.
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At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly3 days ago in Horror
Comments (1)
Heartfelt encouragement..