Once, I used to be in love with the concept of dreaming. Of being in an illusion, something that you could bend at your own whim; for others, something that you had to constantly be subjected to. Perhaps a bystander in the midst of all the action, or the main protagonist in the course of the crumbling, rushing figments of one’s mind. In a false reality, anything could happen; and sometimes — the magnificent part of it all is that we all had our chance in playing God, be it by making something impossible happen or making someone appear, through the intense vividness of such things we are led to believing that we have molded our own masterpieces, our own story and world. Who wouldn’t want to live in an escape forever; in a place wherein anything could happen?
Teenage prose is raw, filled with emotion, parental problems, pure angst, or perhaps unadultered innocent love in every single beat and strand. These aren’t proofread, written in the spur of the moment and unedited (unless to add more lines) they are the pinnacle of raw feelings, in the loose form of words. Here is a dump of poetry made from about last Christmas day to the seventh of February.