Tag Archives: lust

We are all dreaming the Same Fucking Dream

Posted in Poetry English by

Different lives, but the same hunger, the same corruption, and the same ending.

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We are all dreaming the same fucking dream,

endless desires, with lust as the main theme

Born in the lap of fate, we aim to rise so high,

we laugh at each gain; on each misery we cry

Greed rules our hearts, neither love nor faith,

into the darkness we dwell, like a sniveling wreath

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We are all dreaming the same fucking dream,

pursuits are the same, different they may seem

Our journeys start with ambition, blood, and sweat,

our baggage is so heavy, all remorse and just regret

Our birth is by chance, but our death is so sure,

we praise the lofty God with hearts so impure

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We are all dreaming the same fucking dream,

gold, women, and land, we all hail, we all scream

Betrayals are abundant, and loyalty is so very rare,

blindly following the devil without any apparent care

It’s the sin that we seek and the virtue that we reject,

in the end, it’s just guilt; it’s all that we collect

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We are all dreaming the same fucking dream,

the purpose of life we forget, this we cannot redeem

That we have to hold hands, we have to serve others,

yet we kick the dog, ignoring that we are brothers

That we are all the same spirit, we are all part of God,

the system is all perfect, but the users are all flawed

Where is My Home?

Posted in Poetry English by

“A gypsy searching for a forsaken tribe, a vagabond cursed to wander—this is the cry of everyone who’s ever felt they don’t belong.” A haunting, repetitive verse exploring the deep human need for belonging through the metaphor of homelessness—both physical and spiritual. The poem’s refrain “Where is my home and where I am going to sleep?” echoes through various landscapes—deserts, wastelands, bustling towns, and silent valleys—as the narrator confronts regret, shame, desire, guilt, and lost faith.

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Where is my home, and where am I going to sleep?

What have I sown and how am I going to reap?

Do I find it in the blistering and thirsty wilderness,

me and my regretful tears, in all bitterness?

Or is it in the blindingly white and icy wastelands,

me and my shame, my trembling and shaking hands?

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Where is my home, and where am I going to sleep?

What have I sown and how am I going to reap?

Do I find it in the bustling and noisy towns,

me and desires, lust, and greed wearing their thorny crowns?

Or is it in the vast and silent valleys,

my faith and I, destined to walk in separate alleys?

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Where is my home, and where am I going to sleep?

What have I sown and how am I going to reap?

Do I find it near the Tomb of the Lonely Saint,

me and my deceit, friends and partners, yet quaint?

Or is it shrouded within the ashes of a dead volcano,

me and my guilt, my arch nemesis, as we know?

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Where is my home, and where am I going to sleep?

What have I sown and how am I going to reap?

I am a gypsy in search of my long-forsaken tribe,

without my people, I am dead, as written by the scribe

I am a vagabond at heart, forever lost and eternally cursed,

though in case of self-hatred, I am quite well-versed

The Lament of Imagined Worlds (Previously, Harbingers of Doom)

Posted in Poetry English by

A journey through dreams where prophets whisper, and sirens lie, and where imagination walks among shamans, sinners, and dying fires.

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Sometimes, I imagine the most unimaginable,

playing with lightning within the clouds of doom

At other times, I dream the most indescribable,

part of another time, walking the hallways of gloom

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Sometimes, I visit the land of the sad throat singers,

their chords singing the melody - foretelling the end

Then there are men from the West - the tired gunslingers,

flames are dying slowly - the fires that they tend

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There are shamans from Tibet - humming ancient words,

and flutes playing softly, the lament of the damned

Lonely prophets in the streets - the ever-preying birds,

warning of the apocalypse, their words all crammed

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There are lonely gypsy women, with wings under their feet,

their crystal balls telling fabulous lies, all without shame

Sirens hungry for young blood with their smiles so sweet,

their seduction dancing the tango - a never-ending game

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I see the silent eyes of the mindless throng - ruled by sin,

smiles masking a thousand fetishes, all pleasure and lust

Tears of the guilty Midas, hiding the insatiable grin,

desires swirling in frenzy, their feet covered in rust

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I dream of the strange mer-people under the stormy seas,

the weight of the dark waters burdening their heart

Pale mermaids and their sad laments, begging on their knees,

weaving a million enticements, perfecting their art

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I dream of dense forests, under the humid skies,

the old, gnarled trees, standing a solemn guard

Roots gripping the black soil, upwards they rise,

the old gods sleep, their memories all marred

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Sometimes I imagine, and sometimes I only dream,

pastimes of a failed saviour and delusions of grandeur

Life is the darkest of all curses, and so it may seem,

users have failed the system, and He is only a voyeur