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Here ─
In the loquacious silence
Of the white noise in my mind
I knew I wasn't present

My mother was near ─
With her mind withdrawn
Absent to some place
That dated from ages ago

My father would disappear ─
Only to continue being far
Once he was back
Now travelling into the future


And I have gathered a life without
Now
Right
Here
Living in a dreamworld. Living a little out of touch.
Lose myself in random dreams, that never really amount to much.
Wishing on a shooting star like a little child.
Searching for specific pages in my story only to realize they were misfiled...
Stolen away, lost somewhere, stumbling cannot find.
Searching for a place or person. I cannot remember, have i lost my mind.
Once upon a times and happily ever afters. Did  not teach us about broken dreams and unsolvable disasters!
All those big ideas where are they now?? When never land has faded and you’re a grown up somehow.
When your no longer a boy but still a little lost. When chasing all of those things has had a high cost.
Friends disappeared, loves have left you jaded. The energy and hope you once held has faded.
Barely a whisper but still your holding on, singing out your solo but the words are all wrong.
Isn’t this supposed to be the place for your redemptive arc, but no happily ever after appears and things look a little stark.
I don’t like this story, this sad woeful tale. I don’t want to be a character, think its time to bail!
Who is writing this narrative i angrily ask ?
But then in my hand i see the pen this is my task?
in time

i will leave you six

items,



like he said.



five you say you want,

one to mend some things.



the bear, the other bear,

the others plus

a pin.



encapsulated.
It's all sunshine
and beaches
laughter
Suntans
and peeled skin
wrinkled faces
sunsets drenched in *****
open car windows
drizzling sweat drops
late nights stretched till dawn
flings and winks
but all this
misses
"u"
The Letter of Summer
I bleed with ink.
You breathe in brushstrokes.
Still, we meet
in the same shade of ache.

I call it a stanza.
You call it a sky,
but both are ways
to survive the silence.

My pen trembles like your hands do
when the colours won’t blend.
We try to tell the truth,
but it keeps slipping
into metaphor.

I say “I miss you”
through rhythm.
You say it
through smudged reds
and too much blue.

We never made sense
in black and white.
But somewhere between
my verse
and your canvas,
we almost
became a masterpiece.
When a painter loves a poet. Find me on the Poesie app as palindromic_angel to hear my readings :)
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