Red and Black

Just because I wear black

doesn’t mean that I hate

pinker hues: I simply lack

the knack for social cues. Dates

 

passed by, times swim past, but

I still stand behind my fort

of mortification, hidden as I cut

with wit and jests, my cohorts,

 

that painted me as emotionless,

strong, independent, borderline

arrogant, who wants to be peerless,

Fearless. Who could care less? Fine!

 

I shall retain the fact that I eyed

the bouquets of pinks and reds,

feel the envy rose and bloomed.

A childish, seasonal wrath, be read.

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Grayish Blue

Getting up was hard,

and Nature nodded, too, at

me: “the sun forgot, too, so hid, it did

behind the clouds, mellow.”

 

The bell tolled, hard,

and I paused, marveled at

the skies so grey. Sang, it did

with breeze so dull, leaves flapped, hollow.

 

They sang, “ ‘twas treacherous, too hard,

and calloused. A fool laughed at

A star so far.” Think, I bid

my pen to write some verse, ever so hollow.

 

To cry, is pointless: ‘tis too hard

a task for one who sat

around in selfish lights, a bid

for those words become more hollow.

 

I tried, regardless, with no regard

of the hard, harsh wind. I sat

by the window to think, to bid

the breeze and dust goodbye, hollowed.

Puddle of Thoughts

Do people ever write about the cold after the rain?

There are the appraisals for clear skies and bright blues, but is it enough to keep warm?

Do poets ever talk about the greed of the fallen rain, how the droplets, dethroned from their title, “rain,” the moment they crashed landed and joined aimless puddles, rush to take heat to be air or seek a sense of purpose?

Do writers ever notice that their streams of consciousness follow the same desires, just like another body of water morphing through nothing to be something?

Just the phases of writing.