illusionate

It feels like

Writing peoms for the sake of it.

And passing by

The spotlight's beautiful lies,

Although we crook and bend to fit.

 

It feels like 

Stuck in times of aftershock

We cannot face doubts,

Sucked and dragged into the crowd;

we count the hurricanes we blocked.

 

It feels like

When shivers make us frown,

We shut doors and "empower",

Under compliment showers;

Vulnerabilty deep down.

 

It feels like

Even euphoria's unsure.

It feels embarassing to pray.

The sky is blue, but just once a day;

Repainting darkness is mature?

 

It feels like

Art becomes an obligation.

So we embrace our planet's beauty,

With charisma as our duty,

It sometimes fades into negation.

 

It feels like

We redeem our pride,

When our breathes turn cold,

All memories we hold

Are the nights when we cried.

 

It feels like 

Waking up can haunt us.

We write poems every day,

The angst won't go away,

We write poems and make up lust.

 

It feels like

Torture is the worst when  it's denied.

Light cuts Dark.

The irony of our illusionate spark:

All that time we lied.