Dreams, Poetry

Dreamers

Dreaming

is for the most imaginative

the ones with a mind

that could envelop the universe

for those whose spirit lives for

unorthodox ideations

unconventional musings

for those whose essence

runs on pure chimera

and at times, impulsive notions

or so they say

of dreamers;

Yet it seems that

Dreamers are the privileged

living within the bubble they call home

passing opportunities they decree too meagre

singing praises of hopeless romanticised reveries

while waiting for the best chance that matches their standing

as if they could live on by whims and whiffs;

Yet they forgot how castles were made

through centuries with

countless of swords and stones

how dynasties were formed

through unthinkable drops of sweat and red;

And so dreamers never learn of

the product of their majestic palace

or abiding legacy;

They never learn

how it truly feels like

to finally wake up from a dream.

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Dreams, Poetry

Stardust

Flipping through

her astronomy book

she casually murmured

“how much do stardusts weigh?”

not expecting an answer

to this inanity;

He peered at

the tall mirror

to their left

fingers along his chin

took a minute

before moving his lips;

“As light as air and

as heavy as meteorites”

It all depends

on what the person

infront of the mirror sees.

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Dreams, Poetry, Short stories

The Meaning (of life)

White piece

Blank sheet

Empty canvas

waiting to be dirtied

in the name of art;

The theme this week
was “Meaning”;

She wasn’t too sure

what to fill in

this time it was vague

unlike the previous weeks;

Yet maybe it was just what an artist

needed

letting the colors

of her mind flow

without supervision;

Meaning of art?

Meaning of mankind?

Meaning of life?

She wasn’t yet sure

which one speaks

to her in her

palette of pastels;

She wasn’t even sure of

the meaning of her own;

She is an artist

meanings to her

are temporary

and flow like fluid;

Whenever she starts

painting a new piece

a new meaning lives

and dies immediately

when she’s finished;

Face in her hands

Wet hair disheveled

Eye bags sagged;

It’s been 3 days since

and 3 days remaining

to nail this final painting;

The last of her hurdle

the last piece she needs

to join the ranks of prominent artists;

Just one

last painting;

Then she suddenly recalls

her first painting

when she was fifteen;

Her mother’s

face dotted with drops of bittersweet;

It was their first

family trip overseas;

A mother’s guilt towards

her child for not being able to give

her more than what she wishes to give;

Her second painting

was a week after;

both she and her mother

sitting under a blanket of stars

eyes crinkled

beaming;

It was the best moment

of their entire trip;

Her third painting

was a blend of pastel hues

on a human body

with budding flowers

etched all over it;

It was her first time

in love

and a truly fairy tale feeling;

Her fourth painting

was dusky and grim

a lone figure

in absolute darkness

gated away from civilization;

It was that one time

when she felt most alone

and misunderstood

when her dreams were drowned

and looked down by so many

that even she herself

stopped believing in her own dreams;

Her eyes were dewy

cheeks rounded

an unconscious grin emerged;

She knew

what the meaning of life

was for her;

She raised an arm

and a plethora of colours

poured over the canvas

like how the notion

actualizes in her head;

The meaning of life

lies in people

and dreams;

We make memories

with those who warm our hearts

and make history

with dreams that

set our hearts burning

wild and free.

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Poetry

A Child’s Dream

She tells her mama

she wants to dance like them

on stage

 graceful as a swan

She wants to sing so intensely

that tears fill

the audience below

She wants to be a teacher

who not only teaches

math, science and history

but life lessons as well

She tells her mama

she wants to be a president

to help those kids

starving in the commercials

She tells her mama

she dreams

 to save the world

And her mama tells her

but my dear

you are only

a child

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Dreams, Short stories

Year

She strained her barely visible eyes- her eyelids with all their might trying not to get tugged.

8:03 am.

Yeah, is it the new year already?

She thought, and shrugged.

For it didn’t matter much to her, a new day in a new year is just as much like another day in the past year; the past year was horrific. Not just for the world, it was for her as well. A year of absolutely no achievements; the nearest one to call an achievement would be a theatre role as a fixated magical tree which could only speak three words, yet how she felt like a dolt playing it. Besides, it wasn’t even a show at Broadway or anywhere the least renowned – she wouldn’t mind being a chump in a place as grand and attained as The Broadway – but that was just a non-appealing theatre out of the blue.

She tucked herself deeper into the blanket. Her fingers inadvertently fondling with the warm, soft piece of quilt. A disarray of coloured cloth stitched together, it wasn’t the most pleasant looking quilt blanket, but it certainly gave her the warmth and comfort that no other cloth can compare; it was her mother’s last gift to her.

Visions of her mother gradually strewed into her mind.

A gleam shimmered at the corner of her eye.

Mother was such a strong, tenacious and independent woman. I am anything but like her.

She whispered under her breath and choked up.

A wave of emotions hit her; all built up from the past year. During her college days, thinking about life after graduation was what kept her going, pushing through hurdles and up troughs. For she knew she could officially embark on her career as a theatre actress from then on. But she soon realised that life wasn’t a bed of roses as she’d expected, and rather of thorn roses instead. She could feel it coming, rivulets of tears were going to caress down her cheeks any moment.

“Have hope, always have at least a little hope.” Her mother’s voice echoed at the back of her mind, affirming yet affectionate.

But how could she? How could she amass feelings of hope amongst this wreck, and hope that this year would be any different from the year before?

She spent most of the last year, and the year before, at a cafe taking orders while daydreaming of being on stage. She auditioned for so many, countless of theatre roles till she became numb – it still hurts, though- at the response of rejection.

Two years of trying and hoping, yet to no avail. So how can any bit of hope still remain in her? She grimaced, then scoffed at her mother’s words.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Her phone vibrated.

How timely, she groaned.

Her eyes glinted at once – this time not of sorrow, but by gaiety, and an immense one that is. She jumped out of bed, humming a happy tune as she washed up.

She walked towards the door with a spring in her steps. While her fingers grasped onto the knob, she paused – looking down, lips slightly upturned – then muttered,

“Have hope, always have at least a little hope”.

The girl was now one huge step closer to her dream, and within her, so much hope she harboured for the year ahead.

via DailyPrompt: Year

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