Lune

You cannot tell me otherwise.

Photo by KoolShooters: https://www.pexels.com/photo/man-reading-books-6981538/

I am convinced
that all poets are insane
and the best poetry
comes from the craziest brains.

Loose bolts,
dangling screws,
create openings
for metaphors to ooze through.

I am convinced
that all poets are insane,
telling stories
of animus fights and inner demons slain.

Personified nightmares
impatiently standing behind
curtains of imagery,
eager to dazzle the audience’s mind.

I am convinced
that all poets are insane
and the sane world
no longer their domain.

Company kept
by syllables and verses,
endless ink
and torn pages.

I am convinced
that all poets are insane,
for no one else
would dare say the same thing again and again.

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Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

What is life
but an impossible race against time,
with our hopes as pacesetters,
and our dreams to cling on to
when our souls become weary,
burdened by the ever-increasing despair
of a seemingly non-existent finish line?

What is life
but a question
with many answers and no answer;
a question that digs deep into our souls,
creating a void so salient
that many try filling with:
family and friends,
careers and vocations,
religion?

What is life
but a poem with no rhyme,
formless but sincere,
questioning its existence,
moving beyond black and white,
finding comfort in the grey?

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed reading this, check out my other works and feel free to follow me as well — so close to 100 followers :)

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