Happiness, Illusion

Hapiness is just an illusion

like unicorns

or faries...

 

Yet we all look for it

wish for it

and are experts at acting it.

 

Looking for happiness

is like looking for the pot

of gold at the end of the rainbow

 

its like spending

a lfetime searchimg

for the fountain of youth

 

its like stabbing yourself

expecting not

to feel pain.

 

It's quite pathetic

to finally come

to understand

 

it is impossible

to find true happiness

 

yet almost inevitable

to encounter true misery.

Topic: Creative Writing 04-05
Dreams can be the enemy.
They creep into your head
when you are indefensive.
They fill your mind
with vivid color
and bright ideas
only to awake
to a darker world.
Others take your peace
and throw in a turbulent sea
or a scenery
of rain and dark forests
or in front of an individual
with a murder weapon.
Yes, you do awake
to learn it was just a nightmare,
but you jump
at any little sound around you.
The worst dreams,
yes, worst enemies
are y
those that take you
to a world
that has all the success
just waiting for you
to inhale it.
You breathe
and become
all you ever wanted
to become,
you acquire
everything you ever
wanted to have...
then you awake
with the pinch
of reality,
and sometimes you wish
you weren't breathing
at all.

Topic: Creative Writing 04-05
I am a fish in the ocean.
The world around me
is so immense
that I get frightened;
yet, I swim on.
Some places in my ocean
are warm and radiant.
Others don't get enough sin,
so they are cold, dark
and less inhabited
I see fish that travel in groups,
I prefer to swim alone
I must hide or even run
from bigger fish
Yet must prey on inferior
organisms in order to survive
I must watch out
for all the nets thrown in my ocean
they are abundant and subtle
but they only lead to death
sometimes the turbulent waves
wash me up on shore
I grope for water
and jump in despair
but i always manage
to return to my immense
and frighting ocean.

Intro
Topic: Creative Writing 04-05
Hey Guys!

I really look forward to a year of great writing, but also of great improvement. That is why I want to ask every single one of you to take a moment not only to read my writing, but also to comment on it and strongly critique it. Give me feedback on how I can improve in order to make my writing stronger. I'm looking forward to all your help, don't be bashfull!
Your bud-e,
Nathaly Ceron Sarmiento

For Grtanted
Why do you notice
my errors
like you would notice
a red stain
on white satin?
Why are my qualities
as invisible to you
as an atom
to the naked eye?
Half of my features
came from you,
and I am still
as strange to you
as you are to me.
And yet I follow you,
silently pleading
for the scraps
of your attention,
for the slightest
demonstration
of a little bit of love.
You take my presence
for granted
and fake minimal interest
when you need something
in return,
and when I have served
my insignificant purpose
you throw me back
into your forgetfulness,
as I desperately try
to crawl out,
but all is in vane.
All my offerings,
all my sacrifices,
seeking one word
of encouragement
find a thousand
of disappointment.
So I sit surrounded
by trophies and medals
that mock me
because they didn't
serve their purpose.
What must I do
to make you understand
that the commodity
you give me
does not feed
the longing
for your love?
How do I tell you
that each day
that staggers by
drags me further
away from the possibility
to at least be
your acquaintance?
I have tried for years,
I have held on
to that empty hope
that is keeping me alive,
and now
I have grown tired.
Yes, you take
my presence for granted,
so you might as well
take my absence
for granted too.

Breathing in Vane
My self-esteem under my dragging feet.
I dwell in this prision of shrill darkness.
Why am I here if I don't want to live?
I breath and yet feel like I'm lifeless.
So what is the point of breathing in vane?
Just have compassion and please poison me.
I rather not be than to live in pain.
I do not want to wake up from my sleep.
So have pitty and shoot a poisoned dart.
I do assure you that not much is lost.
If I ask for death my reason is just.
So set me free and let me join the dark.
I rather die and let my spirit free
than be imprisioned and be forced to live.

Canary
I am the one canary
that was captured by your eyes.
At first,
when you reached out
for me,
I fluttered away.
Slowly, patiently
you took me in your hands
and stroked my feathers
until I stopped shaking.
Now, when your hand
reaches out to me,
I flutter into it,
anxiously awaiting
your velvet touch.
Before, I scurried around
feeding on crumbs and leftovers,
far from satisfaction.
But you,
you feed me
nothing but the best
seeds of love
and quench my thirst
with passion.
You saved me
from treacherous winters
and staggering droughts.
You keep me in a haven
where I know
I will always have
what I need.
That is why
I am your faithful canary,
I chirp only for you.
But, please,
I beg you,
always feed me
and quench my thirst,
or I will fly away
and return to my crumbs
and the harshness of the winters,
agonizing for your touch,
slowly dieing without your warmth.

Between Loneliness and Absence
The silence surrounds me
in a mocking way.
The day is monotonous
because you are not here.
As the minutes go by
the emptiness is fed
full of loneliness
in somber surroundings.
The fog that covers me
chokes me in its darkness
and my desperate voice
finds nothing but loneliness.
The air suffocates me,
my own breath tries to murder me.
I run and attempt to escape,
but nostalgia traps me once more.
A battle breaks out and I give up.
My one reason
is now a lost cause.
I fall, and fall again.
I get up and don't know why.
My soul feels empty,
I will never arrive to reality alive.
I am sunk in my thoughts,
my own essence,
together with nothing,
accompanied by absence.

Without Being Was
A 14 yr. old girl,
a 26 yr. old man:
two friends,
two poets,
two lovers without knowing.

Only 14 winters
but carries herself with maturity.
Without wanting to
she has fallen in love
with a man of 26.

For a long time he has lied to himself,
and he doesn't want to admit it.
It's too late,
he already loves her.
He cannot permit it.

She only observes him
and listens to him attentively.
She doesn't tell him what she thinks,
what she hides,
what she feels.

He comforms himself with so little:
with a slight touch of her hand,
with the aroma
of her hair,
dreaming a kiss from her lips.

She gets lost in his eyes,
in the depth of their amber.
In his presence
her bravery
transforms into cowardness.

He really wants to tell her
but hasn't been able to.
There is the gap between their age
and the opinion of society
that denotes it as improper.

She writes to him every night
dedicating hin her verses.
With hope,
she lets him see them,
but she keeps her secret.

He does the same
and shows her his notebook
full of love
and the desire
of recieving just one kiss.

She has taken a decision,
she has to tell him
that she loves him,
she desires him
that without him she won't live.

He has reached despair
If he sees her he will touch her.
Don't see her,
don't thouch her.
Today this has to stop.

She continued to wait,
but he never came back.
By surprise
and by mail
a notebook arrived.

Far, far away
there lives an insane man
with no name,
with no home,
with no job.

Everyone fears him.
No one tries to give him help.
In every female
he sees a girl
he has never forgotten.

They have found a 14 yr. old girl
laying in her room
grasping a notebook in one hand
and a knife
in the other.

From her hand,
still alive,
grasping on to the notebook,
she sees how her blood is leaving
with her last memory.

Tied to a strain jacket
a man lives in sourness
remembering nothing but a love
for whom he prefered to go insane for
before comitting an insanity.

Far, far away,
drowning in pitty and pain,
two confused parents
watch the grave of their little girl
who killed herself for love.

Going with her to her grave
tha little girl takes a notebook
full of verses
and blood
and of love: a secret love.

A 14 yr. old girl,
a 26 yr. old man;
he is insane,
she is dead:
a love that without being was.

Caterpillar
Here I am
being a prisioner
of my own body.
A 30 yr. old mind
trapped in a body
of only 17.
I am a caterpillar
that has grown
premature wings
that carry as much
trouble as they do beauty.
Yes, I have wings
but am unable to use them,
so I have to crawl.
I don't want to crawl,
I want to fly!!!
I crawl among the rest
of the caterpillars
who don't mind not
having wings,
but they exclude me,
they seclude me,
constantly reminding me
I am different,
I have wings.
The butterflies don't want me,
they can't accept me.
They remind me that
though I have wings
I cannot use them.
So I find myself
in the middle,
yet not being either.
What do I do?
Do I tear the wings
off my back
and act as if I don't
mind not having them,
risking never to grow them again?
Or do I crawl to great heights
and try to fly
knowing I may plunge
into a crash
and scrape my face
while the rest of
the butterflies watch,
point, and say,
"We always said
those wings were
no good."?
Or do I continue
Being both
and yet not either,
awaiting a death
as premature
as these wings?