lilianslibrary

[lilianslibrary]

The Ultimate Act

Here I am,

Here she is,

We are unafraid.

About to commit

the ultimate crime.

Unclear which said it,

Who decided it's time.

Who will cut the rope?

Whose hand shakes?

Who holds out hope?

We both anticipate.

The ultimate act,

We don't look back,

Can't change a fact,

The regrets we lack.

No tears were shed,

A mutual decision,

We drop, like lead.

Black, our vision.

[lilianslibrary]

I don't mean to fetishize being unmedicated but I like my writing from when I was going through psychotic episodes more than the writing I've done while medicated. Actively struggling seems to be conducive to good art. Nothing new said there.

I wouldn't go back, though. Not even if it meant writing a masterpiece.

[lilianslibrary]

Capacity, Capability

Capacity, capability, it’s a matter Of the things I see Myself doing, they are unrelenting And it makes me afraid of me

If I were to be locked in a cage, sitting alone With only my thought Surely my captor would be one to blame But I, deserving, would say not

Capacity, capability, what does it mean? I have these terrors, Does it means I will inevitably Be led to commit those errors?

[lilianslibrary]

The Tree Set Itself Alight

The tree set itself alight

the decision was not unanimous

some branches didn't want to burn

and so they caught the wind's turn,

blowing apart across the yard.

They sat in the grass and watched

as the tree shook in anger at them,

and then writhed in agony, in pain

its anguish overshadowing its disdain

until at last the tree burned to ash.

The branches long sat apart

though they tried to inch closer,

then assembling themselves anew,

left with nothing else to do

then to act as if all was right.

[lilianslibrary]

Feel Sorry For Me

Feel sorry for me,

Who is useless in all the right ways

And useful in all the wrong.

Feel sorry for me,

Make me regret the friends I have and

Make me regret I never

reciprocated the 

kindness you gave to me.

Let me wallow in self pity,

And let me feel sorry for myself,

Who cannot do a thing right,

But tries anyway 

only to their own detriment, let

Me regret I share all my

Insecurities with

You and retreat again.

[lilianslibrary]

The Second Level

“My Lordie…” called Mother, drawing out the vowels and disfiguring my name. “Won’t you help me fetch a new Bulb?” She asked it so nonchalantly, so matter-of-factly that one might assume she was asking me to throw the trash down into the First Level. 

Mother had always been one for ceremony, the replacement of the Bulb had always been at least somewhat of a celebration. Fancy foods we weren’t allowed to touch without permission would ornament the carved wooden table we reserved for special occasions. 

“Mother, you know I hate it when you call me that,” I complained in response. She walked up behind me whilst I sat in a chair reading and flicked my head with a single finger. “Ow- what was that for!”

“You won’t really make me go to the First Level without an escort, will you?” she teased.

I wasn’t sure what had gotten into Mother. “You never asked me to go before,” I stated honestly. “Why now?”

She let the question hang in the air for a moment before answering. “Well… There comes a time when every young one must take on some responsibility… And, also, Father is preoccupied. So you’re coming with me.”

I let out a groan. “Fine.” I had never ventured to the lower level of the House, I merely threw trash down the staircase leading into the darkness. The Second Level had been “home” for all my life. The First Level simply wasn’t a matter to be discussed outside of the few instances it was relevant to our lives; the Bulbs being such an instance.

I thumped the book in front of me closed and set it on the ornate table next to the cushy chair. I didn’t see why a new Bulb was needed. The light was bright enough, it never seemed to flicker either. What was the purpose of our excursion? 

I mentally prepared myself for the unknown. “Shall we depart?”

We, Mother and I, found ourselves in front of the grand staircase to the First Level in short order. Perhaps “half-grand” would be a more appropriate way of describing it. The stairs bore elegant carvings of creatures I had never been able to recognize into the white stone comprising the first half, the one closer to the Second Level. The First Level’s side on the contrary had worn dark wood handrails and cement steps. 

I had seen this all before, and I wondered if it was designed this way, what the intent was.

“Well, go on,” commanded Mother. “Take your first steps into the First Level.”

I hesitated, and then I began to descend the stairway. The clacking of my shoes on the polished, pure white stairs of the Second Level’s side gave way to more dull thuds as the transition was made to the cement of the First Level. Eventually, having carefully made my way down the steps, making sure not to touch the worn guardrail, I found myself in a pitch black place.

“It’s so dark down here,” I stated, observing the obvious.

“Isn’t it?” said Mother with a sympathetic tone. “Someone really ought to do something about it.”

I stood still while waiting for further direction from Mother. I wasn’t about to set off into the darkness without guidance. Mother gingerly patted something cylindrical against her palm until it shone brightly through one end, cutting through the surrounding darkness.

“Oh, my eyes,” she complained. The flashlight illuminated the area around us. In front of us it was dusty, with various pieces of furniture, beds, chairs, tables, bathtubs, sinks, scattered across the floor in a haphazard fashion, no apparent order governing their layout. But there was a clear path set in front of us that led somewhere we could not see. Behind us were piles of rubbish that we had thrown into the First Level over the years. Bags and bags of it, some of them torn with trash spewing out from their sides. “Right, keep to the trail lest you… step in something.” 

I started off in the direction of the something we were headed toward, the direction the trail pointed toward. “Where exactly are we going?” I inquired.

“Why, to fetch a new Bulb!” Mother stated.

“Yes, but where is the Bulb?”

“There’s a Closet at the end of this trail where they’re all kept. That’s where we’re heading. To the end of the trail.” The oppressive, claustrophobia inducing air, dark feeling and full of dust motes, allowed the conversation to take place. The thudding of our shoes against the dry dirt path continued.

Minutes, perhaps hours passed without any significant words being exchanged between myself and Mother. Occasionally something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. I simply designated it as a trick, an illusion caused by paranoia in the dark. But eventually, turning my head at just the right time, I saw something there in the dark. I saw the glint of our flashlight off something’s eyes.

“My god, do creatures live down here?” I fussed, stopping in my tracks.

Mother simply gave out a short laugh at my fear. “Not as far as I’m aware. I’ve certainly never come across any ‘creature’ any time I’ve been here with Father.”

“Then what was that?” I wanted to shout, but I kept my words to a whisper in fear whatever it was would hear me.

“Probably just one of the people who live down here.” 

I started at that. “There’s people down here?” This time it did come out as a shout.

Mother continued to act as if this was nothing of any great significance. “Well, of course there are. There’s people in the Second Level, aren’t there? Why shouldn’t there be people in the First?”

I was baffled. There were people living here, in the First Level, among all the dust and the scattered chairs and beds. There were people living here. There are people here right now, peering at us from the darkness.

“Are they… you know… hostile?” I trembled.

“No, of course not. We rarely see them,” answered Mother. “Now come on, pick up the pace or supper will be late.”

Tentatively I began to walk the pathway again. I pondered the implications of people living in this place. Did they ever come up to the Second Level? If not, did they live completely without light? Surely not, as this is where the Bulbs are found. But why was it so dark now? Why did they let dust pile into thick blankets and why did their furniture lay strewn about, worn? Did these people fashion the First Level’s side of the stairway?

The walk continued. There were no words exchanged.

The silence persisted as we hit the halfway point. That’s when mother spoke up. “We’re halfway there.”

With the air cut in half by the words of another, I felt the awkwardness of spoken word fade away. I could ask the question I had been wondering about since we had arrived in the First Level. “Why is it so dark here?”

“Oh, Lord, that’s just how things are here.” Nothing more.

“Yes, but why are things like this?” I demanded.

“Because the Second Level needs the power for our Bulb, of course.” she said it all as if I ought to know already. It annoyed me. Furthermore, what was this about the Second Level needing the power? All of the power?

We trudged on, I didn’t press the question because I feared the response I might receive. 

We were nearing the Closet when I finally spoke again. “Do they know we have light up in the Second Level?”

Mother looked puzzled for a moment. “Who? Oh, the First Levelers? I don’t know, I doubt they know much at all, let alone about the Second Level. What’s with all this talk about the First Level anyway? It’s not that interesting.”

“Well I just don’t think it’s right that-”

“Oh, the Closet is right here!” Mother cut me off, pretending not to hear what I was saying. She was right, though. Before us stood a wall, an object I was yet to see in the First Level. Where the wall and the pathway connected were two doors with little metal handles to slide them left and right. Mother opened the right door, shook her head, and then opened the one on the left. “Here they are…” she trailed off, picking up a large lightbulb. “We’ll take this one. Why don’t you do the honor of carrying it?” she thrusted the Bulb toward me.

“What? Oh. Yes.” I stumbled over the words, not expecting to be presented with the chance to carry the lifeline of the Second Level. I took the Bulb from Mother and handled it gingerly with both arms. “Now what?”

“We walk back, of course.” She must have seen the look on my face. “I doubt you want to take a break in this place. Come, now.”

Staring at the ground as I walked so as to avoid tripping and breaking the Bulb, I went over the thoughts Mother had interrupted. 

“So the Second Level uses all the power in the House?” I asked hesitantly.

“All the power is a bit of an exaggeration. But we certainly use up the majority.”

The pathway felt so long.

“Do the First Levelers know how to use power?”

“Does it matter? They wouldn’t have enough power to use,” she pointed out. “What is your obsession with the First Level? Do you want to be thrown out down here? Do you want to live with the barbarians in the dark?”

Lacking any sense of confidence I still tried to retort. “No, but maybe they ought to have light too.”

“And then what? We lose all that we worked so hard for? Our dishwashers, our laundry machines, our irons and our computers?” Mother ranted at an increasing pitch. “If you want to give up your necessities to give the First Levelers a bit of comfort, then be my guest. But don’t drag the rest of us down with you. I suggest you think about whether they deserve that comfort anyhow.”

The emotional wounds inflicted by Mother smarted. I didn’t understand why the First Levelers had to suffer just for our comfort. “Why.” I said plainly, less as a question and more as a statement. “Why do they have to live in the dark?”

“That’s just how things are, Lord.”

Shadows passing left and right in the corners of my eyes. I imagined the First Levelers out there, moving about in their dark, dusty home, stumbling about like wounded dancers. I wondered if I would be willing to give up my luxuries so they might be able to see. I wondered if they even knew what seeing was. I wondered if they were able to see, would they use that ability for good or evil? Would they seek retribution for the years of the Second Level consuming all the power in the House?

None of them approached us so I could ask these questions. None of them approached us to enact retribution. We stood in front of the stairway, Mother leading us. She climbed up, and I followed, still holding the Bulb. I looked back as I took my first step onto the Second Level’s side of the staircase, and then I looked at the Bulb. Would I be willing to sacrifice the comforts in my life so they could have light? I thought about this question. I also thought about how any action I took would merely be a drop of water in a bathtub. I imagined that. Dirty brown water dripping into one of the tubs down in the First Level.

I looked around me at the chairs, the tables, the beds, covered in dust. I thought that they certainly weren’t able to take care of what they had. Did they deserve light when they seemed inferior to us? Sure, they were like us, but are they truly capable of handling the responsibility of the light? Of maintaining it? But what if the lack of light was the cause of their troubles, rather than a symptom? Would I be able to keep up with my life without the light, without the power of the House?

Then I put it all out of my head. Mother was right. There’s a reason things continued like this for so long. That’s just how things are.

I finished climbing the staircase and helped Mother replace the Bulb.

[lilianslibrary]

Bring Me the Severed Head

Foolish thoughts

and selfish suppositions.

If you knew

I wrote poetry for you

would it change

anything between us two?

You think that

I can't handle, unstable.

And perhaps

that's right, but into a trap

I've fallen,

and I've been cut out by you.

Hearing it

from the source, right from the mouth,

might do good

for my heart, but never could

I foresee

that my worst fears might be true.

"Bring me the

severed head of this friendship!"

I demand

of a knight, I cannot stand

staying here

on false pretenses, it won't do.

[lilianslibrary]

The Exit

Dead of night engulfing me as I cut through the darkness with bright lights. Or perhaps morning. Some people call this morning. It's morning for me, at least. The name of the time hardly matters to me, it's the time itself.

Cutting through with bright lights. Imaginary bridges overhead. I imagine the bridges, for no apparent reason. The bridges don't mean anything I think. Just me expecting something that isn't there. Making up details to preoccupy my mind, so long as they don't disrupt the journey. The bridges are innocuous.

Loud music, flowing from the speakers into my ears. Sometimes it stays inside, sometimes it flows from one ear and exits out the other. Noise. Right now it's exiting. It's too scary to go without noise though. I listen to the rumbling of the car and worry every noise is an indication of a horrible defect. 

Everyone grows over the years. In the literal sense. We all get taller or wider or certain parts of us swell with age or from puberty. I've never felt myself growing until this moment, when I sit in my seat at the wheel of this vehicle many hundreds and thousands of pounds heavier than myself, where I have grown vertically, and am too tall. 

Too tall? How would I be able to tell?

A feeling. I've been told I need to trust my feelings more often. I can't trust my senses but I can trust my feelings somewhat. Okay. Let's listen to that feeling.

I'm sitting too tall in my seat. I am higher up than I ought to be. I sit there staring at the road, waiting to come to my senses. I can't be too tall. I can't have grown in the moments between me getting into the car and entering the highway. But…

I stare at the road for too long. There's just the road, nothing but the road. There are no cars surrounding me. I focus on the road with no cars surrounding me and my hands disappear first. Then my vehicle disappears. I, my very soul, my essence, free of the vessel, am on the road traveling at approximately 65 miles per hour.

That doesn't change it. I look down at my steering wheel where my hands appear resting on a part of my car. They never disappeared. They were there the whole time.

Let's experiment.

I slouch down a little. I'm sitting with my butt closer to the front end of the seat, allowing my back to curve with the seat. I'm shorter now. But too short. I can't reach the height I'm supposed to be. I adjust myself several times over with no success. I can't become the correct height. I sit straight up again, my back fully pressed against the seat. I'm too tall in it.

I can see fully through the windshield. But I'm too tall.

I see yellow markings fly past my right side, through the window. "Exit," I thought it said. Exit? No. There's not an exit on the left side of the road. On the highway. It keeps going straight for miles and miles because I know this route. I've driven it dozens of times. And also, exit signs don't appear painted on the road in letters with straight lines.

I know it's something conjured by my mind then. I can deduce this with reason. There are no yellow markings in between two lanes going the same direction. There would not be an exit sign in the middle of two lanes going the same direction, on the road itself. So my brain created this detail.

Okay. I can't trust my senses. But I feel something about this. 

I feel like it's a sign. A sign presented to myself by myself is hardly a sign at all unless it indicates some subconscious desire though. I don't think about that in the moment. I think about what the word "exit" means to me. 

It means death. To exit is to die.

Okay. So I need to die?

No. That's a bad idea. 

But what if that were the case? What would that consist of?

Let's experiment.

Suppose it indicated the exit was on the left hand of the road. The lane next to me. What is it? Maybe a deer miles down the road that I cannot see here in this moment, that might crash through my windshield and sever my head from the primary vessel. Maybe that is it. Or maybe there is a wall, a comical wall in the middle of the road if I go into the left lane. That I would crash into and perish. That seems much less likely.

Or maybe the exit sign on the road is telling me something else.

I think about this feeling. About being too tall. Surely it is an indication of a flaw in life? What is life? I don't know. I don't care to think about it most times.

Some people say it's a simulation. 

Okay. Suppose I'm experiencing this right now, this sensation, and that it is some form of error in the simulation. The exit sign is surely telling me to sever my connection from the simulation. Severing myself from the simulation would be analogous to death, I think. So I need to die to fix it? 

No, that's a bad idea. There's no evidence for it.

The exit sign is a message. A message from myself to myself, then. Exit means to die. So my brain wants me to die. This is getting too on the nose. Obviously.

The exit sign is a flaw in my senses. So I can safely ignore it. 

I travel for miles down the road and there is no deer or wall. There is no portal to another world. There is no indication it was anything but a passing illusion. Because that's all it was.

Feeling too tall is a flaw in my senses too. So I can safely ignore it.

I put away the thoughts of suicide and listen to my music. It's staying inside now. Not flowing through my ears. Only flowing in. I travel for miles down the road until I see my exit sign. The real one, the big green exit sign on the right hand of the road, standing taller than my car, not just painted lines on a road. 

I take the exit and forget how tall I am.

[lilianslibrary]

FL Studio

Flex close grand, Surge XT Canadians, Vintage Chorus and Fruity Reverb 2.

[lilianslibrary]

Nonsensical Senses

Look left and right

And left and right again.

Check and be sure

Everything’s in order.

Corner of eye,

Silent specks on the wall.

In front of you,

Crawling with many legs.

Never trust in

These nonsensical senses.

Can you be sure

What is really here?

[lilianslibrary]

Eavesdropping

Eavesdropping, words, sentences

Exchanged between two, in the café.

Concern and pleasantries;

Demonstration of a friendship.

God knows why I can't find

That concern, pleasantries, alive

And thriving in what's called

The "real world," or "real life."

Thinking back previous night,

Buried in a sea of thoughts,

Try at embarrassing me,

Digging through memory heaps.

A thought stands out in the crowd.

Wasn't that connection there?

Didn't I have it all along?

Am I really that

Ungrateful I forgot my friends?

I discard it and give into desire.

[lilianslibrary]

Your Name Coats My Lungs

Your name fills my lungs

Like smoke, mixed with air.

But I can’t expel you

No matter how hard I try.

And it’s choking me,

It’s choking me again.

So why don’t you just get out?

Your name coats my lungs

Like damp gravel dust.

But I can't cough you up,

No matter how hard I try.

And I cannot breathe,

And I still cannot breathe.

So why don’t you just leave now?

And I’m afraid that

The fumes you fill them,

My lungs, they might ignite,

And explode into a fire

That I cannot fight,

That I could, would not fight.

So just get out of my lungs.

Do us both a favor and just leave.

[lilianslibrary]

Sleepless Apotheosis

Confessions to a Void VIII

An Author sat resting their head on their desk, wondering if anyone could be as useless as themself. They gripped their pen firmly, warmed by their hours of periodic scribbling. With nothing but a pile of crumpled papers and a blank notebook to show for their work, they lightly tossed the pen at the wall, bouncing back onto the desk and rolling onto the floor. Ignoring the pen’s transgression, the Author stood up and headed to bed.

They were writing a story. One about a dragon who lived on a mountain, occasionally picking off livestock and villagers from the mountain’s base so that she could sustain herself. The Author knew how the story would open and how the story would end, but couldn’t imagine in their mind how the dragon would get there. Everything in between was a haze. Everything in between was difficult.

They lay in bed staring at the ceiling, imagining faces, shapes, and creatures in the water damage. Their mind was always hyperactive before falling asleep, tossing and turning, unable to put their mind off ideas they would inevitably forget before rising in the morning, passing like the dreams they had in sleep. They could not tell if they were kept up by the lights shining from below through the window, or perhaps the sound of the neighbors’ fornication or loud machines. Maybe it was the Author’s own thoughts, or a combination of all the above. The sleepless night had carried on more tedious than usual.

The writer rose from their bed, seeing if their expectations had lowered in checking the pantry before coming back to their desk and returning the pen to its rightful place in their hand. They felt something. A sensation they could not put to words. In their tired state, their mind that hours before failed to conjure words to put to paper now swirled with ideas. They filled a page full of notes and quotes for their story, material they could reference and adapt in the coming nights. With the success that came with a late night, the Author returned to bed and fell asleep with no trouble.

In the morning they awoke to a headache and crust lining their eyes. Though they knew the coming day would be difficult in their restlessness, they grew excited at their writing prospects for the day. They had made great progress the previous night, and had constructed a thorough outline of how the dragon was to flee the villagers’ aggression and find her way to a fertile land away from mankind.

This excitement gave way to apprehension, however. How am I to continue from here?, they thought. They stared at the papers on the desk until ideas came. Where were the ideas?

They did not come. The Author sat and scribbled, and then started to draw complex shapes and eventually faces and eyes. These faces and eyes had unnatural curves, contours that unsettled the writer, and they scribbled over them quickly upon seeing the product of their work. They continued attempts at relaxaction, but found that their mind inevitably drifted back to the dragon and her plight. 

The night grew late and the stars shone overhead, outside the Author’s urban home. The sound of pests rustling in the hidden parts of the apartment mixed with those of neighbors going about their routines and watching their nightly shows. Eventually the sound of their neighbors faded, leaving those of the mice in solitude. The Author remained awake, pondering how to please their fans, their publishers, and their critics.

What if the dragon were to fight a battle against the village?, contemplated the writer. Scenes of a bloody struggle between a magnificent gentle giant made violent by the likes of man flowed as ink from the pen onto the pages, every word staining the pure white. The rustling drew the writer’s attention from time to time as they glanced behind and to their sides. Was someone there?

Sunrise. The start of another day. Mice go away, people come again. Routines, but those for morning, as they went off to their jobs. Curtains and blinds remained closed in the Author’s home as they attempted to rest but failed to put their mind at ease. Each spark of a synapse was another sentence they haphazardly added to the draft laying on their desk. Creaks of the apartment’s superstructure were made into a threat from the shadows.

Despite the closed curtains, the Author made an effort to flip the switch of each light in the house so they could be aware of every shadow in every corner. Those void-like shades remained static for now, but they feared that with the passing of any moment they might leap at them. They kept twitching, almost unnoticably, in the corner of the Author’s eye, appearing to take humanoid shapes. Their worries kept their appetite at bay, and their mind was consumed with nothing but the thought of the creaking and their worries about the dragon’s struggle. Time flowed meaninglessly.

What if the dragon pursued revenge? Surely, so the reader could enjoy a strong sense of catharsis, the protagonist must get a chance to right the wrongs humans have done to her. The dragon flew from their new haven now populated with those of her kind, armed with numbers and a sense of superiority. The second battle was short and full of carnage that the Author described vividly. By the end of the great beasts’ reign of terror the village no longer stood, replaced by smoldering, charred ruins and embers.

The shadows in the corners rose up and danced as the Author wrote, pressing their backs against the walls to escape the light above. Like the scampering of the mice and the shifting of the building, these shades caught the Author’s eye, and they scared them. They knew why the shadows were there; they wanted the story finished. They wouldn’t arch their way from the wall toward the desk for any other reason. Coffee went onto the stove to keep the writer awake, lest what was in the corners reach them and enact their cruelty. Sunlight remained forbidden lest the writer damage their newly fragile eyesight.

Their obsession over the manuscript in front of them continued. They felt so close to gaining some sort of satisfaction from their work, it was right there. They felt their work was too short, however. Was there something they could fit between the battle and the conclusion? They mulled over it in their head, but no matter where they contemplated placing new material, they realized it would inevitably disrupt the entire work, creating more labor for them. They chewed on the pen whilst they thought over their story, hoping in the back of their mind it would break.

The bed offered a respite. Surely if they were to get some rest, they would finally have their mind in order and conjure how to reach the ending to things. No matter how long they closed their eyes, there was no sleep. The shadows danced in the corners as the bulb overhead did its best to keep them at bay.

And then it went out.

There was no leaping at the Author, as they had suspected. Instead, the shades approached the side of the writer’s bed as they threw the bedsheets over themself in fear. What came next was a barrage of insults, praise, criticism, acclaim, but the insults and criticism, those words whispered quietly in the background of the praise and acclaim, was all that the Author took notice to.

The light began to flicker back on and the shadows shrieked, returning to the corners and recesses of the room. The writer took advantage of the brief reprieve and scampered to the study.

The Author stood now with their own back pressed against the wall, the shadows reaching in from beyond the threshold to whisper their secrets to them. A new determination entered the Author’s mind. I must finish the story so the shadows go away! But as the writer looked over the manuscript for the final time, all of the work they had done in the past days seemed like mixed words of nothingness and violence. Where had the brilliant spark that had transferred its way into text on the pages gone?

The pressure exerted on the Author grew too much. Their eyelids became heavy as the light went out and the shadows let themselves into the room. The Author fell onto the desk in front of them, resigned to their fate.

An Author sat resting their head on their desk.

[lilianslibrary]

The Author

Counting one, two, three, four,

the projects on the shelf number many more.

With each new year they come

and I think “this time I’ll be done,”

but it is heard throughout,

In sighs of resignation and doubt,

that I lack the skill,

and my peace of mind this kills

to know there is

no one more useless than me.

[lilianslibrary]

Won't Cling to a Corpse

Late nights 

Provoke thought,

Sharing problems,

What happened to that?

What made us drift apart?

Was it my own fault, or yours?

Can I ever claw back what’s lost?

Is that even something you want too?

Am I stuck mistaking your intentions?

I left,

We kept it, 

Don’t remember 

What started the cracks. 

We were both going through 

Something we couldn’t help with. 

Is that why you pushed me away? 

Did I push you away all the same? 

Was it always destined to end this way?

Miss you.

Want to go

To Spring again

Even despite pain.

I know it’s selfish though.

I should just let you move on,

But how can I let go of you?

I will not cling to a corpse but yet

Am I expected to leave you behind?

[lilianslibrary]

Projection

There’s a feeling deep inside you.

it’s been beating there for ages.

Never fails to invoke a sense

you are small, though your heart rages.

And though your life keeps extending,

somehow you made it past eighteen,

this life continues forever,

now you live on in these dreams.

Defy the world, through your being,

let this reality’s veil tear.

If you can’t live in peace yourself

tell me, why is it you care?

So oppression via repeat,

never ending doubt be shed now.

Let us spiral unending then,

we can take our final bow.

[lilianslibrary]

Collecting a Rainbow

Collecting a rainbow,

though mostly off-whites.

Maybe one day they’ll glow.

Cylinders with rounded edges,

purple, blue, green, 

tops with etches,

little tablets like ovals.

Take them as they come.