No Talent.

Why are we so ignored? Extolling their virtues while we cry. Who am I? I am the one who can't sing, can't draw, can't write. I am the epitome of untalented persons everywhere; I am so lost in my own mind that you'll never get me out, never even find me. I am the one lost to madness as you scatter your hopes and dreams in favour of something worthwhile. They don't even look at you, you're not special, you can't do the things they can. They'd rather hire talent than you, and your career becomes something dull and dry that you never wanted. You can't marry for love if you have no art, you can't love your children if you don't love your life. And you have no talent! Who are you to become if not one of the unknown? After all that praise nothing is done, all that sacrifice just for one measly paycheck every week, enough to live but not to sleep, and all you do is say you're afraid and not good enough but WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE? Because there aren't enough people who care about you, there aren't enough people who care like you do, but you're still so tired. So very, very tired, and you'd like all those voices to stop, please stop, please stop.

Colour Contamination

Why are there contaminated rainbows? Black, grey, white are not colours, shades that don't belong in these spectrums. So why are there streaks of black? The rain can't wash them away – why are there streaks of blood running down the arcs, dripping on my face, held up to behold the colours which fade and die under their disease which will not be cured by the warmth or the sun, arriving now and the colours appear in all their glory and the black grows in like a rotting mold bleeding dark red leaks onto our heads, innocently searching for hope that the dark skies bring us, now from lands far away, far from out land of ice and snow, slowly thawing out the traditions of our kind of ideas, and yet the colours which bring salvation to our minds bleed into our eyes instead, blinding us to our principals and values and recreating infinite challenges because there aren't any easy solutions left after all.

I'd like to make videos, or even just audio clips, of me speaking poetry. This is one of them. I struggled with the format when typing it up; there's no comparison between reading this and hearing it. They are almost different poems, at least in my mind.

Why Do You Exist?

So, Why? What is your answer? What is your solution?
Is your reply nothing but a dream? If so, why? Why are you so settled in your reality?
Why can't you just admit your emotions?
Without an ever-changing world, how do you change?
Stagnant and stale in a pool of your supposed self worth,
Why do you consider yourself so much higher?
The hierarchy collapses in this imagined realm,
This is not the reality you always believed and followed.
I wear my clothes and brush my hair; we are similar in this,
But my clothes portray my self, my hair is dyed,
And you stand before me in the same style as all the others.
Where is your sense of self-worth when you are exactly like anyone else?
So where is your reality?
Is it so far away from the truth?
Sooner or later the throne you sit on will be split in half, and then
Where will you go for oblivion?
It is too late for you to hold me in friendship,
Too late for you to repent and regret your dystopian dreams,
But I hope, for the sake of truth,
That your reality becomes something that has an answer
When you finally ask it, "Why?"