Poem number 3

Nothing is real, but a dream,

This life we lead, just an illusion it seems

We chase after wind, grasping at what's called "freedom"

Our existence a stage, played by the uncaring.

Though we strive and strive, so hard we try,

In the end, there are only empty skies,

The things we love, all fading away

A single gust, and they're gone.

The world's stage, us being the players in this cosmic drama, we are all strangers.

We act and we play, so full of passion.

Our feelings just empty words,

And nothing more than fashion.

This is probably my favourite poem, I wrote this one a long time ago, and it really stuck to me. I hope for one of you, or anyone, it sticks with you too. I wrote this one while in a dark space, and even when I had exited that space, it was still relevant. Also, if the third line doesn't make sense, I'll explain it:

 Of course, air is in wind, obviously. And of course "air" has particles and stuff, but I didn't want to make the poem TOO serious if that makes sense. Anyway, since you can't physically hold air, I wanted to use it as a metaphor for the term "freedom", because there truly is no freedom in this world, well, that's how I see it. Even if you say you have freedom, and are free, you aren't.

 I'd like to share my views on things, but this post is about my poem. I hope my explanation makes sense.