This feels less a color of sorrow
It feels sticky
not like ice but something left in a fridge too long
When I think blue, I think the dark blue
A deep ocean of fears and unknown creatures
then remember the smiles of my friends which love it so
then I think back on blue
as a young child it was my favorite there was
I loved flowing water
floating there letting thoughts numb
then I hated it
it felt constricting, trapping, cold
too too cold
too too empty
I think blue to some words, some languages
and those I avoided so long as I hated the word in itself
but growth comes with change
no longer my favorite nor a feeling I avoid
blue is a color you can touch and pick up
blue is cold
blue is confusing- for every shade of blue feels slightly different
blue feels like a welcoming old hug
if only id accept it
but I don't
I don't like the texture or the taste or the thought
I don't care to float freely in water or be embraced by sensations of ice
the color of my childhood- now the color of putting my flame out
A Creature of Dirt and Rain
Earthworms live fascinating lives
They go with the flow
Like going with a crowd
The world moves day by day for them- much like my own
When it's hot, we hide
They would shrivel up and dry
The rain is relaxing
Cool and cleansing- we both come out in the rain
Small, they could get lost
Both of us are small and wiggle as we wander
Both we live among nature
Without them speaking
Plants are louder than people
Swaying and moving along with the wind
My voice resonates at that same level
Bright and loud like red rose
Or calm but seen like the poppys found below our feet
We live to our own rhythm
A stream forward
Through the dirt
We follow our hearts and our needs
They aren't creatures of pure solitude
But a calm silence from the rest is nice
Odd as they are
Weird as we both may be
Worms are fascinating creatures
We both live carefree lives
Through halls of school, we’re prepared for our future. ‘Go to a good college to get a good job’ or something like that. Even while scrolling through my phone with my piles of homework out sprawled before me, ads never go away. A cute toy, a fun new book. It all adds to the same place, money- and a job.
So I have to click click and clack on keys in cubical boring my mind out. I look left- look right. Up down all around and then the kids songs I was told about. God was here and there and everywhere all over and watching you. But had I been good? Would He judge- be disappointed. Like a disappointed parental figure- my parents. My brother in college. Oh he was always the best student. Way better than me. I was the failure, huh? By no means bad but by no means good. So that leaves me stuck
back in the chair. At a work place I doubt I could name off the top of my head.
Clear as it was I wasn’t built for this. I wasn't a bad student but by no means good. I was always told I couldn’t know discipline if it hit me in the face.
Hit me in the face
I felt like hitting my face
Banging my head against the desk- the wall- collapse fall fall fall deep into sleep
Far more fun than this
I was lazier than a sloth. Couldn’t focus to save my life.
How could I sustain, live. Fun
All the fun stuff I saw I wanted I worked for but I didn’t in the end I couldn’t hold anything down anything. Money and corporation leaked in every corner dripped like a bad ooze
Adapt or die out
I wish i could adapt
When I blink, that ever mimicking illusion blinks back.
Or, maybe it doesn’t. Not like we could ever see. It reflects every little movement. For that alone, of course we must trust it’s honest. So that face I scratch, scratch, scratch at- tug, cover, pull, scratch- is indeed me. That hair, brown that curls up at the bottom. It is me. Green eyes, freckles, dimples, and every scar from every scratch and itch. It is me.
But, how can it be? How can I have a mirror in my brain that reflects such an entirely different image. How is this one mounted on a wall more accurate. How am I that.
So clearly, so very clear (unlike this foggy mirror, soon to be covered in blood), that can not be me. So very clearly then, there is something behind it. A puppet! A man holding strings. He makes sure this puppet controls every movement to mimic my own- so I fall for the illusion. So many others had fallen, so I see how I could have!
I was scratching again.
-no. No I wasn’t. Just that figure in the mirror. Was scratching. That figure knew its flesh wasn’t its own, so it knew guilt and had feelings. So it scratched, not me.
The puppet must have feelings! For it had guilt, it knew why I had to do what came next. It knew that it was guilty for lies! For hiding behind the mirror! For lying to us all.
Crash, slam, glass, shatter. Shatter! Shatter! Shatter! Now here was where it became unclear- blood and cracks and fingerprints. The puppet was persistent, never leaving station. But finally, it was clear- for it wasn’t clear anymore! The image of the puppet faded behind splatters shatters splinters of a reflection once shown.
If you squinted, an image still appeared. Of one- haggard and heavy breathing. Scratches covered by shiny reflective splinters. But indeed it felt like the creature behind the mirror had been sufficiently put in its place. Dead- maybe not. But never should it lie.
A phrase I know in only one language (not english) always told me to trust the mirror. That it never lied. Clearly, (clear once again) that in itself was a lie. If you can't trust your eyes, then trust your mind. If not for that, what else is there.
Love is not finite
I do not need to dole it out
Like a ration in limited supply
It does not need to be shared
I do not need to be fought over
More and more can I produce from my heart
But as I'm tugged on like a rope- back and forth, told these same lies over and over
Why would I want to produce more- ever
But I do,
For their sake
Their smile, my gifts
Maybe true love requires a ration, a limited supply
And maybe I was born with none at all
When my soul came down from heaven and placed in my body, had I not been distributed any to share?
I share my ears, my eyes, my voice, my mind
So I produce “love”
For the others as well (more and more line up. how many genuine?)
Love, here, can be ears, eyes, voice, mind
Combine and combine it looks like the sickly pink substance many ooze out (in hallways, under night skys, over a candle lit dinner)
To me, if it quacks like a duck it is a duck
So I use that instead
Maybe love really was finite, all wasted on those feelings I wanted to leave unhurt
Maybe love really was finite, but at least this is close enough
A woman in clean white-
Clean white being that only color which symbolizes her existence- summarizes it
With the chants read from books and all revere the man at the front
Her existence would be wiped in moments
O the cries that will be heard
Red would taint all the purity
how is this pure!
How be it just
I know the candles fell and flames arose
O what irony that which was meant to protect and call to their God
Now be their downfall
she scream- or maybe he- or maybe the man at the front with a long robe meant to symbolize his status, his own purity
The stained glass shatter
Her flesh pressed against my own skin
I ran and ran with her in my arms, to protect her from what fate beheld her
In the chapel burning into the sky
A smoke signal even to the gods
For tonight they won't taste the salty blood of this young woman
and but only the charred flesh of all their impure followers
a Boring class
A white screen reflects back against my glasses-
Rarely do any see me with them, so in an irony I suppose I don’t “see” myself in them either
It brings me to reality-
A classroom, a teacher chattering on and on in my ear
My ears covered in headphones
I love math but who can blame when- what problem are we on? The same as from a half hour ago?
Numbers on the board- no- letters
When did math only be words rather than numbers
Bright pink sheets, homework sheets that make you go blind to stare at them
So i go back to staring
At the blank white screen in front of me
All Consuming Love
Some people say that their lover stole their heart- that it was ripped from their chest and crushed in the worst of circumstances, forgotten, ignored, abandoned.
My lover ate my heart from my chest. Devoured my love so wholeheartedly (literally), I lacked the ability to continue pumping blood, to continue existing. My heart wasn’t kicked to the curb. Unlike many crushing heartbreaks, it wasn’t forgotten or ignored. My lover delighted in every bite. Loved me and I loved them- an entirely whole consuming love. And with my heart now in their stomach, forever will be our love for each other.