Blue

Black does not channel the essence of my thoughts,
So indigo ink is scrawled across the page.
“Blue is melancholy,”
I suppose.
Blue is tears that have been held back by years of damming.
A clear lake.
Reflecting the summer sky
unlike the murky swamp back home.
Blue is the sky after a night of sheet rain, pounding on the roof all night.
Staring into the darkness, blue is two cat eyes staring back at me.
Now I write these words in blue, from a pen that only writes truth.

Phoenix

Tears well up
Like springs
To water the ground
But they only seep through the cracks Deeper in the abyss
Dry air and blistering sun
That glares off the hills
But down below
There are flowers in the cracks
And tears watered a bloom
That’s rising from the ashes
Like a Phoenix
Red feather flames in the desert air

Passage of Time

Words were supposed to lull me to solace but really all they are
is a dull echo of my thoughts
Made smooth by the passage of time.
Time is like the tide;
Inescapable,
And if you try to escape it,
It will pull you under.
I decided to let the time pass over me Like the rolling waves,
Drifting in a sea
Under the light of a changing moon.

Long Night

It’s that awful hot cold feeling
Where you’re burning up inside but You’re shivering,
That one.
Under the quilts,
Listening to the rain coming down on the roof,
And staring out the window,
I began to ponder
By the light of blurry street lamps.
It’s been a long day;
A long day in this old house.
I would like it if I could sleep,
But I just can’t stop wishing I was somewhere I was not;
Across the street, across town, across the country;
Staring out a clear window where I can see stars,
Glimmering brightly in the oblivion.

Lost in Translation

No longer lost in translation;
Colorful thoughts with no explanation. The swimming hues float around between conscious and unconscious,
But can find ground between the lines Of the page.
Abstract swirling thought tamed into the simple forms.
If only my life lines were so clear,
But they’re blurred,
Like a world without glasses.
Someone tried to conceal, but used a dull eraser.
So I stumble around smudged lines.
They ombré fade like sunsets, and I’m playing between them in ecstasy.

Escapade

I thought it came off with my tears;
Shedding away like cells of butterfly wings.
They were those tears that make you shake,
But still, she stares back at me, shoulders shivering, eyes swollen, but bright.
The mask.
I just want to please the wicked.
But the wicked don’t rest.
What am I but a mask?
I’m Giant Owl Eyes on moth wings,
Except I’m not scaring anyone;
I’m drawing them to me like buzzing bees, awaiting their honey.
If only they could see I’m a butterfly with broken wings.
If I could just fly;
I’d fly through flames;
Across continents,
Searching for a heaven
Where the sun shines,
And let them see that the sun glimmers through my missing patches.
And they will see I’m not beautiful;
And the sun still shines.

I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.

Ernest Hemingway, from A Farewell To Arms (via dieworten)

Escape

And now I hear the cicadas.
It’s dark but the path lights are still on.
And I’m in the shadows of the ravine;
Wet grass sticking to my legs.
I’m glad it’s night
And I don’t have to hear that awful iron gate, opening and closing with the sound and force of hell.
And it’s weird to live in this city
So simultaneously chaotic
And tranquil.
Loud and blaring in the light day; Quiet by night. I feel like I should be scared, out here alone, and I am, a little. I hear heavy croaking, and jump a little, but I realize it’s just the bullfrogs. It’s weird to think that just beyond the ordinary is the extraordinary, Like how I escaped, clambering through the rocky trench, and over the iron gate with the spires, bruising the flesh of my inner thighs.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms  (via dieworten)

Bloodless

Blood streams with fire,
But fires burn out;
Lives prodded into darkness
Without flame;
Huddled in the shadows.
Their faces
Stare blankly,
Pale white as the moon.