I feel the pen quivering in my hand with ever word I write. Words engage my mind into feelings which keep me alive. I sing and dance to awaken my inner self I cry to cleanse my soul of toxicity, to set it free to fly into the light I laugh and scream so anger leaves me and I care not who hears me For life's a dream, A play, we leave behind.
A day will come when we are forced to awaken from the dream, into true reality. A reality, void of all the troubles we create Within ourselves, just to keep it in real mode.
We'll see ourselves floating in a bubble, As spectators, To expressions of trouble in the outside world.
Our world is peaceful, without pain and sorrow, But our nature, our need, to innovate, is real. We can't wait for the curtain to rise To express our dreams and fold into them, As pages in a book, to tell a story Of how a pin, pricked our finger so it bled red. Of how vile a feeling it was to eat of something putrid, which turned our flesh into yellow rot. Or of how it was, to regenerate, rebuild into something beautiful again Someone could actually fall in love with. Or how one could love someone so ugly on the outside and yet see how precious and beautiful the person was inside we couldn't live a day without.
Who are we? Are we real or floating in a bubble, dreaming, acting, Wishing for sorrow and joy to ebb and flow into our true state of existence? Do we ripple from beyond recognition Amplifying our existence into space beyond our reach hoping someone would create us into living bodies and then take pictures to send us back in waves to fly by our bubbles so we could see our work as we wrote them with the quivering pen in our hand.