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Black and White

Life, Experiences, Today.

Not My Tears To Cry

You know, there have been times

When I have shed a tear or two

Listening to songs sublime.

But I’ll tell you now

Like I tell myself

These are not my tears to cry.

I have had times when I looked at you

And longed for one look back.

And now that you do

With eyes a little blue

I’ll wipe them back to black.

I will hold you till you need me

And save you one last sigh.

I know what you are thinking

Why the rapid blinking?

They are not my tears to cry.

My nose may turn just a little red

But you don’t know how hard I’ll try,

My eyes may be wet

My cheeks haven’t met

The tears I just won’t cry.

You know I’d do what it takes

To bring back that playful smile

But my eyes won’t bleed

A single seed

Of sorrow that isn’t mine.

 

Those tears you saved for so long?

They will be replaced in time.

I’m saving mine for my own grief

This one just isn’t mine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Unwritten

unwritten_memories_book_background_blank_hd-wallpaper-1855855I have wanted to put words to paper

To see how the lines taper

Down to a certain thinness

And appeal to you with some finesse.

I may have written a million word,

And this may sound a little absurd,

But this one is for you, who reads

But won’t understand where it leads.

I wrote what I wrote in hopes you’ll get it

And through some indirectness, maybe respect it.

You’ll think about it before you sleep,

Because I can’t be anymore indiscreet.

The window’s open, now’s the time:

Wait for tomorrow and I’m denying

This was even written by me,

I’ll surprise you with my honesty

(Or lack thereof, in this situation)

So rid me of these complications.

Now, please will you read and maybe listen

To all this stuff I’ve left unwritten?

 

 

 

 

 

Black and White

She was white, like fresh snow;

Deep, and soft and fragile.

She would melt in the hands of the coldest men

Because they were warmer than her.

She glistened under the cold sunlight

As she piled on top of herself

Hiding, scolding and mumbling sometimes

But still cold.

She was warm and she was fresh to every soul that touched her

But it was her soul that kept her cold.

It was she who would keep her solid.

And underneath the white, she was dusty

She was hard and she was heavy.

Under those layers upon layers of freshness

Lay the invincible, filthy black

Mixed with sand and soil

Rock-solid like ice.

The white hid the black completely.

It was the black that kept her going.

I’ve Thought About It

It’s all in my head,

It’s all planned out.

One nice, clean gash to the wrist

In the middle of the night

In the white, ceramic bathtub

(to match the full moon outside)

And the red that flows into the drain

(to represent the rusty night of the rain)

I’ve thought about it.

It will be deep,

Like the ones to my heart

The wound, but not enough to kill me

It will kiss me,

From my wrist right to my trembling lips,

Yes, I’ve thought about it.

It will be better than the tears that flow

Because blood is thicker and easily hidden

And more effective,

And less frequent.

All I need now is courage.

I admit, I’ve thought about it.

Silence is Silver

Silence, he told me, is an everlasting truth. Soulful. Inevitable. Don’t push it away.

I listened, silently.

The quiet is the sparkling silver, he emphasized. It is the sun bouncing off of those rapids which drown every other sound in their waking. Do you understand?

Do I understand? All I heard were words. And silence.

It’s not the shimmering gold. It isn’t the glitter wanting to be noticed, clawing at your eyes. It is the absence of the need to be heard. It is the nightlight which glows when the crickets croak. Honey, he says, do you understand?

Nod. I don’t understand. He makes it so comfortable, like it is so normal, the silence, like it is a part of us. Is it?

Good, he says, and smiles.

The silence prevails.

Feigning Pretences

Can we pretend for once it’s not just pretense?

Can you not emphasize that what we have is not the truest of things?

Because what I want and what I need is truth;

To be able to fall down on you and to be picked up by you.

Can we pretend for once it’s not just an act…

That deep down, what we are is right

Even if it feels terribly, excruciatingly unstable,

Like an egg balanced on pin point.

Can we for once pretend that

It is all as real as the rest of this false, evil, good-for-nothing world?

Let the cloak of invisibility fall to the ground,

Let the world burn and may we burn with it,

But just once, let’s not pretend to pretend.

Black on Orange

Silently, he stalks his prey,

In the wild, during the day.

He likes to be seen, to be feared

To be the only face with a sneer.

If you hadn’t guessed, the prey is me.

I am his doe-eyed fantasy-

The one he would readily devour,

Be the thorn to a delicate flower.

He looks me in the eye, and hugs me

I sense the wrong, but it doesn’t bug me.

I take in the orange on black

His claws buried in my back

He takes a whiff, I know it’s time

The fangs hit me with some slime.

And with some naivety I chuckle

Reality hits me, as I buckle,

Under him, under his weight

I know it’s too late.

I should have recognised this felony sooner

For, since when have tigers befriended a human?

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Filtered Fury

Flustered, feigning forbearance

Frustrated of forced forgiveness,

Fighting fruitless friendships formally

Finding faults, filtering felicity.

Furious- forever fixated,

Forgetting facts she fabulated,

Flawlessly forging faithlessness,

Faking fairness and finesse,

Filtering fury fearlessly

Avoiding fawns and falconry

Fire after fire, she fends,

Furthering filters filtering friends.

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Wrestling with Cigarette Smoke

He had a tattoo on his wrist

Of stars deprived of luminescence

Forming constellations which spelled a scar

From times he wrestled with cigarette smoke.

He had hidden it well,

Beneath shirt sleeves and wrist bands.

They never showed… except in his eyes,

Until a few years ago.

Wrestling with cigarette smoke,

Encountering the cylinder itself,

Having found it lit and orange,

He burnt a hole in himself.

“Look!”

He told me for the first time ever.

He had it all figured out.

The stars dotted the beautiful scars,

The smoke had finally escaped his mouth.

His yellow fingers were turning red,

The scars had escaped his eyes,

To be replaced with the sparkle

Of the luminous stars from simpler times.

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