Even when the water stirs at the ripple following a throw of a stone,
deafening silence, quickening of breath
In the destructive conflict
Poetry, a form of art that knows no limits nor bounds.It paints images of people, places and experiences in the mind of the reader and etches emotions onto the readers' soul. It allows the reader to live the lives of a thousand men as well as experience the poets' love, heart ache, achievements and failures. One poem has the potential to generate a myriad of interpretations and leave the reader with infinite ideologies to contemplate.
A hidden desire stirs within me.
if i had wings and the ability to linger between the flower fields and ancient forests, maybe it would be easier for me to remember of my magic. but in between the concrete walls and the weights of responsibilities, social relationships and reputations, i forget of the wonders of existence. my body grows just like the mighty trees, and it longs for love. had i not been exposed to the beauties of my existence every day, would i still take them for granted? my skin is nothing but skin to me, because i see it every day. had i not been forced to consider my flaws as flaws by the preconditioned societal norms, would they still seem as flaws to me? proust taught me that the most successful meaning of life is art. so, let my body be art and let my mind be art, too. to live as if i am being created along the way, cherish myself like i’m a work of art and work on myself as if i am only the first draft. it would be easier to remember of my magic, had it not been for the clouds of judgement. but as everything is in constant motion, so too the clouds shall move. and when they do, i’ll whisper to the sun to help me shine.