tory-1 - Hello Poetry

why is red so angry? red is the color of a festering wound it’s the sun falling from the sky at night, the color of pain behind your eyelids. what is red so angry at? red is the color of blood and oxygen, the brittle leaves leaving their home, lips worn down by worry. maybe blue has left red. blue is soft and calm, the cold side of your pillow, the color of quiet. blue is sad. red is brash. red is angry. who is red so angry at?

0

Jan 19, 2014

Jan 19, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC

colors

why is red so angry? red is the color of a festering wound it’s the sun falling from the sky at night, the color of pain behind your eyelids. what is red so angry at? red is the color of blood and oxygen, the brittle leaves leaving their home, lips worn down by worry. maybe blue has left red. blue is soft and calm, the cold side of your pillow, the color of quiet. blue is sad. red is brash. red is angry. who is red so angry at?

16

I want to scrub you away erase you from my mind wipe you from my body but you cling to me like the smoke of your cigarettes, and no matter how many times I lather up my skin I will always feel your lingering hands. I will always burn from your toxic kisses.

0

Nov 2, 2013

Nov 2, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC

Untitled

I want to scrub you away erase you from my mind wipe you from my body but you cling to me like the smoke of your cigarettes, and no matter how many times I lather up my skin I will always feel your lingering hands. I will always burn from your toxic kisses.

9

Maybe the reason That you don’t speak to me Anymore, Is that you Are not you. Perhaps you are but a copy, And the real you My you Is buried within me. Because every night When I lay my head down, You fill my thoughts. And every time Someone asks me What I like about this world, Your laugh erupts Into my ears. But when I sliced myself open It was not your golden hair That I saw, And when I look Into the mirror There is no trace of you That smiles back.

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Nov 2, 2013

Nov 2, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC

Maybe You are Me

Maybe the reason That you don’t speak to me Anymore, Is that you Are not you. Perhaps you are but a copy, And the real you My you Is buried within me. Because every night When I lay my head down, You fill my thoughts. And every time Someone asks me What I like about this world, Your laugh erupts Into my ears. But when I sliced myself open It was not your golden hair That I saw, And when I look Into the mirror There is no trace of you That smiles back.

24

the trees make me sad because they cannot see their changing colors, but do they still feel cold in the winter? they have no one to warm them but the earthworms beneath their feet and the squirrels within their chest. the trees give so much but they cannot be held they cannot receive.

0

Nov 2, 2013

Nov 2, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC

Trees Make Me Sad

the trees make me sad because they cannot see their changing colors, but do they still feel cold in the winter? they have no one to warm them but the earthworms beneath their feet and the squirrels within their chest. the trees give so much but they cannot be held they cannot receive.

11

I want to write poetry But What am I to write about? I could tell you about The horse I had at 3 That my parents sold at 4, Or the Taco Bell up the street That was closed For selling drugs out the back window, Or even the time That my dad crushed an ant Into our old cement patio And tears sprang to my eyes because I was sure that the ant had a family somewhere Who would expect him home any minute. But those aren’t very pleasant things And I’m not able to make rhymes, So I am forced to face the truth That maybe I am not a very pleasant person.

0

Nov 2, 2013

Nov 2, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC

I Want to Write Poetry

I want to write poetry But What am I to write about? I could tell you about The horse I had at 3 That my parents sold at 4, Or the Taco Bell up the street That was closed For selling drugs out the back window, Or even the time That my dad crushed an ant Into our old cement patio And tears sprang to my eyes because I was sure that the ant had a family somewhere Who would expect him home any minute. But those aren’t very pleasant things And I’m not able to make rhymes, So I am forced to face the truth That maybe I am not a very pleasant person.

20