on reading poetry

God's Dream

Nothing could be more promising than tonight’s weather. On another side of the world, this temperature is warm. But beside my ceiling-high window, it’s as perfect as the way your cute classmate finally smiled at you. That was, of course, eons ago, way before this window was built.

Nothing could be more saddening than not knowing why you’re kept awake betwixt the most inviting pillows while you’re on your favorite bed, the one that doesn’t leave your feet dangling past the edge. It’s not that you’re sad. In fact, you’re happy but you just couldn’t put your finger on the reason why. It must be the cool weather.

Nothing could be more awakening than a paper and a pen, or ink on paper. You mince your thoughts and emotions, until you are either enlightened or confused. You read the images they’ve written, and your grieved or overjoyed.

I just discovered the second thing that makes me smile from ear to ear inside my heart – if that makes sense. The first thing is excellent and passionate singing, the other is a well-chiseled poem. The kind that’s stained with the poet’s blood.

I guess, it’s not the weather or the window, then. Today, somebody’s words are keeping me awake.


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