Every single thing we think is real is not.

You loved me when the summer was hot

But now that you don’t love me, that memory hurts

And so I don’t think about that memory a lot,

And no, I don’t even look now at this one who flirts.

Every single thing we think is real is not.


Every single movie, look, laugh, and poem is fake.

And mutability erases everything, everything—but this ache,

Which is the pain of knowing every single thing is fake.

Every moment flies, and was never real before its flight.


Moment! There’s an hour that wants to talk to you. Can you take

A half a moment out of your busy moment’s day

To listen to what my sad complaining hour has to say?

No? Okay, I’ll just talk to this mass of moments in the night

Of how every beautiful thing is built to break

And every single thing we think is real is fake,

And not only fake, painful, and the pain goes on and on

Even when all of the fake things, and everything, is gone.




1 Comment

  1. maryangeladouglas said,

    March 11, 2016 at 11:11 pm

    And bless you for writing on appearances and reality. No one seems to do that any more. an inescapable inevitable theme for the Romantics. But then, not to be saracastic about it, but there’s no social issue in it, is there? Yet it still remains a thing that people struggle with deep down the longer they live on earth.

    This is a thing I think is real, my poem. (or I woudn’t have written it)


    [to Emily Bronte]

    I spoke with trees and rocks and clouds
    because I could not speak with Crowds
    or when I did my words were spurned

    and that was how I came to learn
    that dreaming speaks to Dream, alone
    as Light, unto the blind.

    or else my soul I must disown
    when whispering through the tunneled snows
    with grave presentiments for those too early on

    the plains of human life disdained and disappearing.

    through hell’s disputes and flame to flame
    at winter’s core I still remain apart from those
    who mock there is no gain in words for their own sake.

    and for the Soul’s.
    awake I cried and on my knees to God who heard
    me in the trees and in the rocks and in the clouds

    and when I could not speak aloud
    unless my words like shattered glass
    lay splintered on the fallow grounds.

    unschooled is better knowing this
    and weddings ever stripped from bliss.
    let Time itself melt into seas

    that I may still delivered be
    from those who hunt the singing word
    and slay the singer in the silver wood.

    mary angela douglas 14 june 2015;11 march 2016

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