We could die, anytime

At any given moment, we could die.

There could be an accident, a crash, the whole word could explode.

The worst part would not be dying

it would be

dying with the regret and saying

“I wish I did that…”

Live your life to the fullest!

Purpose of Poetry

Poetry is putting a diaphanous veil over something unappealing, speaking regarding it just subdued enough to put into oblivion how abraded and festering and suppurate the wound is.

It’s a language of emphasizing inspiration, subjectivity – of Romanticism and painless augury, full of fanatical sentimentalism and compelling twists of the tongue.

Metaphors are hazardous travesty, using a sort of transfiguration to turn wordless sentiment into imaginable circumstances.

The way the anguish rios through yoyr body and flusters your every bones compelling you to envision misery as it pull you down to great depths and choking breaths.

The truth is, poetry is a deceiver, a fibber, an equivocator. Never fall for its exquisitely crafted stanzas causing slips into the dense fog of nostalgia.

Summer on November

Summer came, you felt it.

The soft light breaking through the trees, illuminating the dusty earth. Pollen floating in the wind. Warmth surrounds you, but doesn’t suffocate. You remember the old things you used to love that aren’t as old as other old things.  But it will be once you know it. You will miss it. Other times a bird swimming through the sunlight catches your eye. You’ll always love that thing you miss.

But in the summer, you miss it more. Some things can’t come with you, only memories remain. Fallen leaves can’t grow again on their tree. But it’s not a bitter taste, its one of love, of appreciation. You don’t love it like you used to but you don’t love it less, only differently. You know, like an old friend, you can always visit it. Like leaves, they come again.

Same tree.

Different leaves.


Sari Not Sorry Art from Sari Shryack