Dreams by Anne Bronte

While on my lonely couch I lie,
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye
With scenes and pleasures of its own.
Then I may cherish at my breast
An infant's form beloved and fair,
May smile and soothe it into rest
With all a Mother's fondest care.

How sweet to feel its helpless form
Depending thus on me alone!
And while I hold it safe and warm
What bliss to think it is my own!

And glances then may meet my eyes
That daylight never showed to me;
What raptures in my bosom rise,
Those earnest looks of love to see,

To feel my hand so kindly prest,
To know myself beloved at last,
To think my heart has found a rest,
My life of solitude is past!

But then to wake and find it flown,
The dream of happiness destroyed,
To find myself unloved, alone,
What tongue can speak the dreary void?

A heart whence warm affections flow,
Creator, thou hast given to me,
And am I only thus to know
How sweet the joys of love would be?

Canvas of Ours

Imagine.
Our lives,
Displayed as a canvas;
Waiting to be filled
With our hopes,
Our dreams,
And our beliefs as well,
Colors and meanings all our own
That only you'd understand.
Like a Jackson Pollack,
Appearing unorganized
With unpredictable splashes of paint,
But with its own definite meaning,
Like our existence.

In a Different Light

Alone with my heartbeat

That is now sheltered from this dark atmosphere,

I shiver in thought

Of hidden horrors in reality.

My heart thunders

In fear of this darkness.

Lies spoken as truths;

Smiles hiding jealousy;

Enemies disguised as friends.

Alone with my heartbeat,

Trapped by the solitude,

I tremble in sadness

From watching negativity

Outwit artificial reality.