I often wonder
Is the world a fake
Just some legos
Put together
Are the people
Puppets, controlled?
Are the animals
Toys?
Are the trees
And the streams
And the skies
Our illusions?
Did someone from outside Earth
Sprinkle water as rain?
And shine a torch
As our sun?
Did someone place stickers
As our moon and stars?
Is the world
Just some legos put together?
4 comments:
A certain despir, a reality is shown in your poem ... most poems that are simple bore, but yours brings out issues that I feel ... simple words yet with style and meaning. If you could contact me at fyodor_bingoffsky@yahoo.com
I wrote a poem about a talented person, could you review it?
Oh, Genius! when thy mighty pen
Is wielded purposefully in thy dexttrous hand,
Words cease to thunder, but mildly speak;
Thus scatter'd on sheets, thy steadfast words
Move swiftly - and when thy writing pauses -
Reflects, enlightens with thoughts so rarely heard
And, in the depths of flutt'ring pages,
Reveal'd away from Life's humdrum drones;
Elevated beyond to heav'nly thrones;
Brilliance! - when you do declare
Freely, of hidden connotations - burning in sincerity
Strangely, drips of raging serenity
That doth gently breathe thy lit'rary flair
THe sweet words waving rhyth'mically in the air
Like daffodils sway'd on wind-blown days.
Let me speak:say what thou may'st,
That ev'ry single soothing phrase
Doth uplift the sunken depths of my soul
Utterances I cannot release, for they are stole -
And that, reader, is indeed honest Praise.
Clouded skies; the very words seem to drift
Across a mirrory lake on a summer day
Yet nat'rally, for they possess not lacquered polish that parst sophisitcated facade from true finesse -
To speak, a hazy, Impressionistic finish,
hue'd by Dickens' descriptions, and Bronte's emotion'd Will.
My eyes glaz'd from reposeful rest,
Brush'd with the tints of Monety's garden idylls;
Feelings - the very word is like a dream
Of abstracted moods - imaginations - stroll far from what they seem ;;;
And when my eyew withdraw, I turn with much re4luctance,
Shadow'd by gold-illuminating brilliance -
Escape! - for that is the very reason I peruse these pages reffined, -
Avaunt , Restraint! - for these written dreams have conquer'd my mind.
I love poetry - especially Keats, Tennyson , Wordsworth, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The last is very emoytional. Do you take Literature?Hoping you will reply soon, I remain,
yours sincerely,
Claire wong.
The wrold is fake - in my school there are cool cliques who sneer at me the nerd. Therefor, strive to be unusual, to improve your talents. I can live because of writing.
Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end;
Yet days go by, and weeks rush on,
And before I know it a year is gone,
And I never see my old friend's face,
For life is a swift and terrible race.
He knows I like him just as well
As in the days when I rang his bell
And he rang mine. We were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men:
Tired with playing a foolish game,
Tired with trying to make a name.
"Tomorrow," I say, "I will call on Jim,
Just to show I am thinking of him."
But tomorrow comes - and tomorrow goes,
And the distance between us grows and grows.
Around the corner! - yet miles away . .
"Here's the telegram, Sir. . .
'Jim died today'."
And that's what we get, and deserve in the end:
Around the corner, a vanished friend.
*We think we don't need it anymore..
But when it comes to giving it up..
It suddenly becomes precious..
a fake world is the real world. it depend on how real you want it to be otherwise it is just part of life that everyone have to go through. interesting poem....
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