1. Words are the life etched in my paradise, a paradise of my imagination. Fantasy bows down for the dreams i conjure. On this planet, i play the queen, my pen the wizard , and mind the fantastical world. If i cloud build a stairway from tears , i would, for it is worth a million stabs to walk up the fantasy world. Is love an illusion ? It must be , because here on my insomanic days, i find deary dreams.
2.Poetry is the hue of my eyes. It has blue, the blue of sky and ocean, not of pain. It has red, red of love and roses, not of rage. It has yellow, yellow of friendship and support, not of riots. It has a whole rainbow, the spectrum of acceptance, and diversity, In my fantasy made of words, the rainbow is soul. With every inhale, choke a black- and-white syrup, just to fuel my heart. Here, the diaries never say "words wasted", I reflect the sogged reality into hues of subtle verses.
3.Metaphors cloak the poison. While I bathe under the dried-up purple blood reality bleeds, my poetry cloaks this scene. But these poetries are like sunflowers born from blood. They cloak the poison of reality while serving an illusionary face. But I keep those flowers far myself. They are born from blood. They feed on poison. But I call them mine, so swallow even the vile. Burying the dead doesn't bring them to life. Cloaking the reality doesn't make my fantasy alive.
4. We spit lies more than how we're made to chew baked realities. I serve my meals with a topping of dumped emotions. Invisible scars melt on my skin getting etched in the empty spaces, feels like they don't like my body having spaces. Nightmares are my favourite meal. They are easy to swallow and they get engraved deeply without any effort. I choke on reality and it's the hardest to gulp, It feels like having heap of thorns. The thorns bloom into soft edges while I pour out poetic lies.
#sanamusings#reasons_why_series
