The world bleeds colors for a girl who can only see shades of grey
She sees in particular 50 shades
She walks with pain and dignity
The type of dignity that screams
the type of dignity that is silenced by tired fingers with a smack to the lips
She is a walking contradiction
Her conscience fumes with words that only she can hear.
They paint her canvas with colors so dim that it is surprisingly impossible to hide.
She wants the world to know of her pain; she is seeking.
Acceptance but Approval.
It is with precision that she is
It is with precision that she is
Her canvas is a replica of Da' Vinci
Carefully crafted so that enough smiles can hide her tears
She blooms with effortless screams.
She does not walk to be seen
But to be heard
And she cries
Only because her comfortable canvas has now been brushed with
And for the first time in a long time
The world bled Red for a girl who is used to seeing grey.
She can not find words to express what's been drawn.
She cannot lift a finger to the skin she has..
-Galleries of displayed art
she is seeing 50 shades of colors
Not only on herself but on other's
she stops in the middle of the street
Her pupils look at the ground blurry as she falls sobbing.
She pleads for grey-
As if the color would respond.
"Please, I'm sorry"
Mutes the women and paints
A new canvas on her naked body
"Anything but red"
The woman said.
"If you wish for grey,
stop painting red"
The woman opened her eyes,
looked at her stained knuckles,
opened her shackled hand,
Scoped her Canvas,
Felt the delusional ground,
Her mind screamed of colors.
RED RED RED
"Put the brush down,
this is not Art."
|And she did|
i was tald
to not any more write
any political manifested verses
allegedly it is boring and out of times
instead i was recommended to write just about love
this opinion of the experienced poet himself
made me fall into confusion
isnt anything interconnected?
The love fails sometimes because
of quite political treason
isnt it a reason
she was soaking in the crimson red bath
and it wasn’t water
it wasn’t champagne either
rewinding to the day
he went running in the wood with his son
laughing, joking they were
the sky turns rouge
just like the color of her cheek
blushing from the heat of the oven
waiting for them at home
It all happened so fast
If his mind is like the black box on the aeroplane
then they found
a flash of an animal
startled by his car headlights
frozen to the spot
then what once lucid became the color of her hair
snow white’s jet-black.
fast forward to the day
two old couples sitting side by side
no words were uttered
it’s the most beautiful time of the year
outside was a celebration of color
lights flickering yellow
Christmas trees viridescence
the child’s cherry colored pom pom
but all that got a shade brighter
thanks to heaps and heaps of snow
not ivory but transparent
like those droplets
running from the corner of the dad’s eyes.
Just hanging around stuck in the background where Echo and the Bunnymen sing sad songs,they're not funny men and I'm not one too.
Going to take my Queen and fulfill a dream,dine in style at Mile End,wend my way down to Nandos,pay for chicken,sticking less to the plan because I'm only a man I travel to Hackney where the wild men of Shoreditch come out to attack me with rolled up newspapers,their capers amuse me until I blink twice, and I see, that my Queens seen it all and goes off in a huff,
Puffs of smoke are no joke when you're born as a bloke because the magic don't last,blast it nearly passed it,the turn off for middle age,junction twenty six on the revolving glass mirrored stage,but I made it and now I'm back in the sun waiting for my Queen to come,my apology accepted along with the promise of a day trip to Poundland,stand and deliver while we shiver our timbers and limber up for the party on interstate four,
sore from the laughter we take a bath shortly after because we like to stay clean,my Queen thinks I'm dirty and men go that way after thirty but I'm not so sure.
I have pure intentions and clean underwear,does she care? I think so but it's so hard to know what she's thinking,she tastes of melons when I'm drinking her in.
In this flotilla where the will of the one doesn't win,we all stick together, whether it's a good thing or not,
but I've got a plan and because I'm only a man it's a good one and so I carry on and she carries me,I meet her mum and she marries me..sounding obscene,I mean I married my Queen,not her mum.
It's all in the spaghetti which I'm sure that SHY YETI'S BEST OF BRITISH - PART 1 doesn't cover,so it won't keep me warm but no harm in me looking through this facebook and cooking a dish,should I wish, for some it's back to interstate four,where the cops will be waiting with a ticket to the potteries and a fine for the finder of the stopped timex watch winder.
where was I
in Mile end?
going to spend but stay lean as I talk with my Queen,
and so it goes on.
My dear, if you were to cut me open,
to tear away my measly skin,
you would not find
the contents of an ordinary human being.
You would not find veins
or internal organs,
especially not a human heart.
Instead, you would find a battlefield, with freshly made bomb craters
and you would find discarded bullets,
fashioned from spiteful words,
that were perhaps destined for use on my worst enemies
but were instead aimed at myself.
You would find the remains of a daisy field
with the left over petals
looking vaguely like feathers
that fell from doves
or perhaps even angels.
You would find memories of a tiny village
once colourful and lively
but swept away by multiple hurricanes,
that took all happiness and innocence along with them.
Blood would not pour
from my lifeless body,
but dark cigarette smoke would seep from the wounds,
and if you closely investigated,
you would find that the fumes were made up of
microscopic black moths
that had all my lies and promises
carefully written all over their feeble wings
For I am not a human being, but simply a worn out shell of one.
I'll read words reminiscent of expressions,
You'll feel tears flowing down the page,
The deepest pain, hidden inside
Will work on out along with joy and light.
You'll be surprised for the worst, then for the best,
And you'll feel a relieving sense of rest
When you read the hurt and the fear
And they're burned on paper, not in a heartbeat.
Just try-- tears for ink,
Letting loose instead of denying,
A little truth, you don't even have to be with me.
Love and faith alone won't save you--
Sometimes in life, just try to
כשאקרא את המילים הן יזכירו מבטים,
תרגיש את הדמעות שזולגות על הדפים
הכאב הנסתר ,העמוק שבפנים
יתבטא יחד עם האור, שמחת החיים.
תופתע לרעה ואז לטובה
ולפתע תרגיש תחושת הקלה
כשתקרא את תחושות הכאב והפחד
כשעל נייר ולא לב שרופות הן בלהט.
;דיו במקום דמעות-- רק תנסה,
הכחשה תיהפך להרפיה,
קצת אמת, אפילו כשאני ואתה לא ביחד.
אהבה ואמונה לא יושיעו לבד--
לפעמים בחיים צריך קצת
through a trying work hour in the night-time rush,
groped by strangers with dark eyes
the color of neglect and whiskey.
Men with knives under their sleeves,
calling you back and back again,
refills for their poison and pretzels for the table,
don't be a prude, darling.
I only want to feel those hands trembling
All you ever knew were the bruises and the burns.
Gliding closer and closer to
your face, your hands,
inching towards the skin that gleams, exposed
and invokes the shame you feel from
fetid breath on your neck, these
animals with moldering livers.
but another round for the men in the grease and grime.
Green bottles and a smile that said
'I like the taste of your weakness,
You like the abuse.'