"That dreamers often lie."

Folly - It/She . You will find that truly, in the end, happiness is nothing but a fleeting moment--and one day that moment will flee from you for the final time.

[dreamersfolly]

"

IT’S HAPPENED AGAIN.

How did it happen?

I don’t know.

Everything hurts—

a blinding, surreal pain—

my words slur and my vision blurs

as I try to make out the faces of those I love.

I become nauseous just thinking of the agony.

Are they there?

Are they real?

Is anything real?

"

--March Fifth. November Twentieth.

[slvywlvy]

"Welcome to the Eternal Limbo."

[dreamersfolly]

what do you think of the aspens?

A Sestina for the Guardians

The wind whistled through their branches - -the trees, tall guardians, foliage whistling Gentle parasite, a moth, rests its wings on the trunk And its eyes keep watch for danger The forest is a place of love, creatures' bond never broken by anger or hurt

Even broken limbs beneath the fall of soft claws Catch wind of the forest's words, and bend their ears Love carries to the roots of the ground, going up  And the trees grow taller from the nurturing cherishment  The aspens have eyes to watch for danger, but ears to hear the thanks That even the parasites give them as they feed on the wood

But a parasite of unkindness is sure to come, one with no thanks to give to those it has broken Eyes fill with red tears, weeping like willows; they did not see the danger And the wind gales with a new, twisted hate, as the aspens try to be something they're not. Trees are their birth, no denying that truth, the mother's blood will always carry through And if their mother loses her love, they should grow cold and loveless too

But why should lost love dictate a life lived? A parasite of hate should not dull kind sparks Why should trees live and die by the growth of their roots? Why do we say blood bonds cannot be broken? The wind bends ears to listen to the story that has not yet ended And eyes all around the forest watch, enthralled, to see the guardians twist their own tale

The guardians’ sap tears dry from their eyes And they grow to realise soft claws still give them love Even as the wind howls in cruel humor at how these things seem so meaningless, Even with a parasite of infamous and infinite unkindness  And even with soft claws broken to be sharp,  One once-kind thing still thanks these distant trees

Trees, guardians, stand tall, keeping watch  And even stained red, those eyes still protect  The hatefulbond of blood and race of roots is broken,  If only for one case of gratitude and love  The parasite may turn your care on its head for all the world But perhaps your long dead cherishment lingers on the wind, and travels up the trunks once again

Even as broken as I am The trees have always stood tall

And when the wind feels harsh and cruel The trunks' eyes always keep watch

I have always had a love for the aspens And even if the parasite wounded us, at least we can bleed the same

—F.R.

[dreamersfolly]

I was taking a break to learn more about different types of poetry, and I wrote a sestina to respond to an asker, but now I cannot find the paper I wrote it on. Torturous.

[dreamersfolly]

A Thought About Freedom

Freedom, whatever twisted definition you believe to fit it, is something we all yearn for. Everyone has tried to find a freedom. They've killed for it, they've survived for it. They've died for it.

Freedom shouldn't have to be this big concept, or this penultimate state of existence. I do not believe that to be true. Freedom should be to think what you wish to think without the fear of someone hearing it.

Consider this my lesson to you. Be free, not in the way that kills you, but in the way that makes you alive.

I don't think freedom is something that will come in one moment. I think freedom is something you have to build, perhaps never being truly complete.

So, be free. Be free in the way where you get excited over something horrible even though you know that it is, simply because you're capable of feeling excitement. Be free in the way you learn something new, perhaps pointless, just because you can.

Feel, do. and create what you can and do not fear those who judge it. That is freedom. --F.R.

[dreamersfolly]

what do you think about wolves?

I should preface this work with an apology for how long it took me to answer this. My employer has been keeping me busy and I have not had much time to interact with you all via this website.

-+-+-

The wolf is a beastly creature. Its teeth are sharp and pointed. It runs rabid and vicious in the night, tearing through the forests. I see myself in its raging eyes, that grief of what it is I see how the blood on its maws is tinged with just a hint of guilt.

I think to myself of what it feels, of how its heart intends. Perhaps it is just a creature; I don't think that's where it ends. It seems like it's only trying to survive in a world that's cold, A world that doesn't understand why it has to be so bold.

Perhaps it can learn to indulge itself within its own bloodlust, Perhaps it can feel a rush of thrill at metallic tangs of blood. Perhaps this is the only way it finds itself at peace, Perhaps this is the only way it allows itself to feed.

The wolf may not wish to be violent, but that is how it survives. It hunts its prey, and if it won't, it will not stay alive. But a wolf is born a carnivore, not made this way by man, And that's what separates me from the beasts I call my friends.

Does the wolf believe in freedom? Does it put the hare at rest? Does it know that all existence becomes pure after its death? The only bliss this world will see is when it meets its end. This wolf will keep on killing, after feeding hands have bled.

-+-+-

To be honest, I've been holding onto this one, mulling over it. I just wasn't sure how to articulate it; I have a lot of thoughts about wolves. They're fascinating creatures, really. I still don't feel like this poem covers it all, so I'm going to ramble for a bit after the fact. Forgive me.

In Norse mythology, the story of Fenrir and Tyr is one that stands out to me. Tyr, god of justice, sacrifices his hand to Fenrir (a monstrous wolf and son of Loki) in order to fetter him in Hel (the Norse underworld (which is ruled by Loki's daughter of the same name)). I am not sure if this is the saying that "bite the hand that feeds" comes from, but a part of me likes to think it is--after all, Loki tends to do this quite often in the myths.

You may be asking why Fenrir would be fettered for the deeds Loki had done. My answer is very heavily based on my own speculations surrounding the myths: If Loki cared for his children at all, what could possibly hurt more than seeing your child suffer for the things you did?

And if he didn't, the gods could assume he did and follow that moral, only for Loki to simply turn a blind eye to it.

Imagine how Fenrir would feel.

[literaryvein]

L. V., excerpts from the afterword

[dreamersfolly]

You take a star from the sky, and she's bright and shining. She drinks her coffee with two cream, and she likes to chase her dinner down with dessert. You see that shine in her eyes, and you know she's the best thing that will ever happen to you.

That star lights your way, and she's happy to do so, no matter how draining it is. She does the work you give her, and she carries the burdens, she takes the fall for you. She's a star. She burns for you.

Then she starts to dim. She starts to set the cream aside, drinking her coffee black. Her dinner is bland and she doesn't chase it with a sweet. The shine in her eyes dims--not because she's growing dull, but because her eyes are narrowed. She's glaring at you, and her eyes are filled with hatred.

She didn't lose her spark, you took it.

What have you done?

[hop-timism]

was writing my essay and realised my pen was red and i was writing about a character’s malicious intents . then i had a funny thought

[dreamersfolly]

your recent personal update actually just reminded me of a question I've been thinkin about a lot, if you say you dont feel love or happiness, wouldnt you also not be able to have friends? after all friendship is a type of love, just platonic as opposed to romantic, alterous etc. so like... how are you and wallter friends? do you consider him a friend? it seems like you do. are you just acting out friendship?

I believe that you and I have different definitions of "friendship". "Friends", to me, are people who you share interests with and are capable of getting along with better than others. They are people who, if you have to be in the company of someone, you would prefer them over most others.

Some may consider it insulting to be regarded in a manner like this, but it is simply an accommodation for myself. If I cannot feel love, I cannot feel "friendship" in the way you define it, so I get as close as I can to that feeling.

You can also think of my "friendship" with Wallter as a way to make my time more interesting, or to get criticism most would not be willing to give. You can see it as many things, but I would not consider it any type of traditional love. Maybe fondness, but only a ghost of it.

In summary, we are "friends". Him to me by his definition, me to him by mine. --F.R.

[dreamersfolly]

A bit of a personal update, but I think I will ask Wallter if he is interested in joining this website. He and I have been discussing my poems recently (when we run into each other), and I think he would enjoy reading them when they are posted and responding to them where others can strike up conversation.

I do think he would like a place to share his poetry, as well. It tends to be a bit more... upbeat, so to speak, than my writing is.

--F.R.

[dreamersfolly]

How do you feel about feathers ?

Quills are sharp, pointed things Reminders of a past They poke into your sides like needles Discomforting and crass

The quills were once your feathers, Long and graceful, shining white But now you've fallen, they're discarded Tainted black with night

Maybe some white swan is out there Drying off your tears Maybe you're not lost forever More than just your fears

But if embraces, warm and light From white swans do exist That is not a world I know And one I do not miss

Feathers are both quills and down. The quills, sharp, and painful, are reminders that your wings have been ripped from you, that those feathers are no longer on your back, but pointed towards you like knives now. But they are also soft. Warm. The embrace of someone who cares, the love of someone who still has their wings and doesn't see you as lost forever.

Not that I can relate to that.

--F.R.

[ambereign]

i dont like jhim

[dreamersfolly]

Bright

I am not the bright, young thing I once was Where there were soft caring hands there are now sharp claws, They are scratching and raking at the hand that feeds.

A part of me wonders if I had to succumb to it. Did my teacher's hatred have to be what won out over its teachings? I wonder if this is my fault. Perhaps it is.

I wonder why I am stuck. My mind never seems to leave that moment, that cruel, final moment when my innocence died.

Sometimes, in the darkness, I see a door And I see light slipping through the cracks But when I go to chase it, it burns and leaves nothing but ash.

This door must lead to what is left of me, the true me, the girl who died and took my world with her. She never should have become who I am.

--F.R.

[dreamersfolly]

i like that your red text also spells out a coherent sentence, "how did surreal love become agony." i think thats very clever

Thank you. It was a deliberate choice; I like to encode messages in my poetry like that, because it is like a smaller, more raw poem hidden in the main poem. I also think that the words I highlighted in red were good to emphasize in the main poem as well.

Thank you for pointing it out, because now I can remind everyone to read between the lines. Nothing is ever as it seems. --F.R.

[dreamersfolly]

DO NOT THANK ME FOR SOMETHING YOU MADE ME DO.

Do not think that your harshness is enough to teach me how to act the way you want to. I fear you, not in the way that man fears God but in the way that man fears man. I know violence and pain from you; you have taught it to me, not with words but with fists.

You hurt me, and you think you teach me to act 'right'? You teach me to act in a way that will not get me hurt. You teach me to save myself from you. That is what I learn from you, and from the One before you.

--F.R.

[dreamersfolly]

What do you remember about love? About happiness? Do you miss feeling it?

"Memory"

The memory of joy

Spring snow still falling down

Dancing in the cold

Young. Pure. That is what I was. There was not a worry of when I would lose it all. I did not think that eventually the rays of a red sun would melt the snow that had crunched beneath my feet as I danced.

I felt beloved, as I was. I felt safe, as I wasn't.

Innocence does not know distrust and caution, and that is its fault.

Do I miss feeling happy?

I miss when she could.

As for love, it is too trusting. Too vulnerable. It is not something worth my time missing. --F.R.