Anum Ali June 13, 2007
Tags: dreams , aspirations , creativity
waiting for recognition
There’s a world within me, a culture of cherished dreams
Lurking gloomy shadows, unheard unanswered screams
It’s in constant combat, with creatures of my kind
With different worlds within them, each one a different mind.
If truth be told I’m clueless, to which dimension
I belong
What language do I speak? Who understands my song?
Sometimes reason fails me, when my lips part to speak
Facing a feigned charisma, originality feels so weak
Why the foolish submission? To an absurd inferiority?
The divorce from all humankind, the run from reality?
There’s a world within me, it sleeps in anxious slumber
It churns with emotions, for events it remembers
It rotates on a play of words, the pieces I compose
My poetry makes the seasons, the weather is my prose
Flowing thoughts are rivers, its turmoil makes the seas
My wrath unleashes storms, and my joy makes its breeze
But it knows not the motive, a direction in which to spin
Dreams a million dreams, but resources fall short within
Till then the creative embryo, sleeps in dormancy
And I wait for recognition, I wait so patiently.
Lurking gloomy shadows, unheard unanswered screams
It’s in constant combat, with creatures of my kind
With different worlds within them, each one a different mind.
If truth be told I’m clueless, to which dimension
What language do I speak? Who understands my song?
Sometimes reason fails me, when my lips part to speak
Facing a feigned charisma, originality feels so weak
Why the foolish submission? To an absurd inferiority?
The divorce from all humankind, the run from reality?
There’s a world within me, it sleeps in anxious slumber
It churns with emotions, for events it remembers
It rotates on a play of words, the pieces I compose
My poetry makes the seasons, the weather is my prose
Flowing thoughts are rivers, its turmoil makes the seas
My wrath unleashes storms, and my joy makes its breeze
But it knows not the motive, a direction in which to spin
Dreams a million dreams, but resources fall short within
Till then the creative embryo, sleeps in dormancy
And I wait for recognition, I wait so patiently.
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