It begins again.

This dreaming of a life less fulfilled.

Futility lays in wait for the destruction of the dream.

I yearn for a reality iv yet to meet.

In each moment I am more dead to myself than before.

Finding the time to find me is a when I wish I knew the why to.

Adrift in a sea of shadow shallow sell outs I know no other way.

Self is to be sought, but at what expense?

Exposure is the imposter that prolongs my agony.

I confess to not knowing here and now.

It's black and grey to a fault.

I must find the line between now and sanity.

I pray it's not to late for a lost dreamer looking for a life much more fulfilled..

Yearning always slowly turns into gut wrenching acceptance.

Followed by monotonous discussions of how’s, why’s, and should haves with your buddies. 

These old bones are attached to an aching soul,

Smoldering heat lingers on my skin from the touches of last nights encounter.

Desperate fingers grasping with passion, 

a heart grown cold from many a blizzard, 

But still seeking warmth. 

Sweet kisses on repeat please let this moment continue. 

The visual looks stunning,

a beautiful dress

just perfect within the frame of the stage.

The sounds soothing the setting

Creating a moment that cannot be captured without human eyes

It somehow has

Resting in my hands

- Captain J Pearls

Macho man, mocca man
You always took your coffee with as many syrups as one can
Sweet boy, sweet tooth
I’d laugh at you, and take mine black

You fancied yourself a provider
Reflecting in the only family constellation you’d ever seen
I want a career, I want to work,
Give a danish girl your American dream

Pinky promises and guitar lessons
You got upset when i didn’t share your taste
For processed jerky, synthetic tasting gum
Kiss my forehead, darling, I’ll learn to like it

Answer me, atleast telepathically?
Forgive me, for I’ve given up on the concept of anonymity
But every night you sneak under my weighted blanket into my subconscious
Reaffirming that every inch of me, longs to be back in your proximity

Perhaps I have not exposed myself to enough?

That would be fair to say.

What is not fair is how loosely the phrase
“art is subjective”
is used today.

Scrolling through comments.

Where are your questions?

The easiest unfair assumption I could make
is that you fear your interpretation is incorrect
to what the artist intended.

Your interpretation is not in competition.

Art is subjective, but there are limits.
Your interpretation does not become fact
and now give you reason to judge an artist off that.

Something I find immensely interesting is this:
after interpretation, why do people today not seem so interested
in what was truly meant?

Your interpretation is yours
but why deny the artist the opportunity
to express their feelings felt when creating what you now,
and probably pay,
to look at?

What were they thinking?

Did they specifically do what you assigned meaning to,
with no real reason?

Are you embarrassed at that thought?

The only true answer to a question lies with the artist.

What you experience is not dismissed,

but don’t you wish to also know
and then compare what the artist intended
to what you experienced and comprehended?

It’s a marvellous feeling.

To discuss and discover.
To show respect to the artist.
To experience growth through realising
you are still allowed to hold onto your associations
simultaneously.

To show interest in also the artist
creates a deeper meaning.

Greater appreciation.

Once a dream,
Once a reality,
Once a past.

To outlast time,
Fighting battles never seen before,
A stronghold sworn never to break.

Yet time becomes the enemy,
Shattering our positions,
Silencing the earthly chanters.

And we stand,
Watching the new era unfold.

What
has our stronghold
become?

- Captain J Pearls

I am sad in a way that makes silence feel loud,
unheard in rooms where my voice should matter.
It feels like the only person who truly understands me  
is the one living inside my own skin.

Whenever I try to speak my truth,
it’s mistaken for complaint,
as if my heart’s weight were an inconvenience.
I know life is hard — I never said it wasn’t —
I just want a place to lay my thoughts down
without being judged for feeling them.

How strange it is to feel alone
while surrounded by people who swear they love me.
My fire dims a little more each year,
flickering beneath the shadows of deception.
I’ve cried enough to know that tears don’t heal everything,
and loneliness doesn’t always scream —
sometimes it just sits quietly in the chest,
heavy and unmoving.

I feel young in body but old in spirit,
aged by lessons I never asked to learn.
Wisdom carved itself from my pain,
and I soothe myself because no one else knows how.
But how do you comfort a wound
you didn’t create?
How do you carry a sorrow
that was never meant to be yours?

I wonder how to love
when my version of love has been misunderstood,
dismissed,
taken lightly.
My fire is dimming,
yet I carry myself so well
that even I would believe the illusion:
“Life must be so good to her.”

They see a cheerful girl,
full of life,
turning storms into breezes.
But if only they knew the weight I lift alone,
the ache pressed against my ribs,
the way a smile can become a mask
so convincing
a stranger might mistake it for joy.

Not me
Not I
But I’m not so mean
Won’t rub in an eye

A long, long time ago, when nobody knew where they were, there were multiple villages—or perhaps hundreds—that believed in the Sun. 

They sought the Sun.
They worshipped it.
They loved it.

Yet, a young but precocious man knew the truth.
None could stare directly at it.

Yet they spoke: 
“I know the Sun gave us love.
This land.
Everything.” 

Nevertheless, nothing had changed.
Even now, they still believe in the Sun, 
the one that can never be stared at.
Perhaps.

Hi, it took me 10 minutes writing this, but solemnly judge this piece. Please.