To

Is this thing that we call life,
Nothing more than a dream,
As day and night run together,
An endless silent scream,
A twist of fate sustains us,
With the door now tightly closed,
While we hide the simple facts,
And pretend it doesnt show.
 
 
Twists and turns come every day,
But which things are seen as real,
Are our perceptions based on fact,
Or on what we see and feel,
The night becomes a landscape,
Littered with tombs and graves,
As night mares live inside the chest,
With the dreams that no one saves.
 
 
Sometimes we can’t see the forest,
Because we only look at the trees,
Overlooking so many things,
A dream that none can see,
We believe there is a reason,
For all this ignorant bliss,
With no way to see tomorrow,
Still stuck in what we miss.
 
 
Is every day a repeat,
If were left with no real choice,
Having no way to change it,
Without the will to use our voice,
Silence becomes overwhelming,
As we strain to hear a sound,
While all the things we thought we had,,
In truth were never found.
 
 
Things we cant hold on our hands,
Are still held within the heart,
Just wish I had the ability,
To tell the two apart,
No matter what tomorrow brings,
No matter what we miss,
Inside all our hopes and dreams,
Is the question what is this.

June 16th,2016

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Robert L. Martin
Environ 3 ans

Look up these web sites. www.newpages.com. or this one www.tgaps.net. There are hundreds of publishers who are looking for poems. Good luck

Robert L. Martin
Environ 3 ans

I loved this. Wonderful imagery and language, philosophy and logic mixed into dreams.

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Esther Yasmin Groeneveld Robert L. Martin
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