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Tana F Bridgers Apr 2018
It was what one might call a rainy day, but I had called it a melancholy of nature. Everything had been sorrowfully drenched as if the rain itself was weighing on their minds. A heavy mist had settled just above the cold ground, one that limited your vision to only a few feet. The pavement had no cracks, no indentations for mournful puddles to dejectedly form.
   Indeed, as I walked down the endless paved path, It seemed as though I was the only one here. As though an eternity had stretched itself around me, around this single moment in time. And I could walk, and walk until time ended.
   As rain rolled down the hood of my gray raincoat, thoughts and memories ran slowly through my mind like a slideshow of bittersweet emotion. I fingered the strap over my shoulder. I had, of course, brought my camera.
   My camera, an old Polaroid, had served me well. I had once dreamt of being a photographer, but as my dreams for the future had disappeared, my film was eventually empty. Now, it was nothing more than a memento of the past.
   I began to approach a figure standing alone in the rain, though they seemed dry. They wore a raincoat, much like mine, except a dark shade of purple. They had no camera, and would not face me, but followed when I began to pass. As we walked together down the paved road, they continued to face the ground, seemingly avoiding my gaze.
   I did not know who they were, nor where they came from, other than the mist. They seemed almost familiar, and yet they did not seem tangible. I heard them take a small breath, as though they were gathering their courage. Then, they said,
   “Always. . .” They stopped for a moment and then began to speak again. “Let your heart decide what is the truth. Then, let your brain decide how to explain that to others. And never be ashamed of who you are. For when you are true to yourself, your creator cannot be disappointed; they have made you be that way.”
   I heard the sigh, who I then guessed was a girl about my age, and then watched her stop, fading out of my view as a continued to walk through the mist.
   I cannot say with certainty that I ever saw her again.
I like this, even if it is just eye candy...
I actually wrote this because the girl is supposed to be like someone I know who is a very strong and wonderful person, though I fear they may never know this.
Tana F Bridgers Apr 2018
Two Coats
     Home, in a closet somewhere, I have two coats. One is yellow, the other gray.
     Even if I wore the yellow, would I be warm? Perhaps others would prefer to see that color on me. It is so underappreciated, after all.
     Lo, but I am so used to the gray! I dislike wearing it, but its warm lining ushers me in, its routineness offers me stability. In this, I blend into the background. I slip silently under the radar.
     Perhaps, though, some will notice how often I switch from gray to yellow, and back. Often, what seems like only a single degree difference will make the coat I’m wearing seem dull.
     Most of the time, I long to don the bright color of yellow. But then again, I find it so difficult to pull on, so difficult to keep from slipping off. And perhaps the color is a bit too bright too match my demeanor?
     Every day, I wonder which. Some days, I wear yellow without worrying about the weather. Most days, I wear gray underneath, simply by habit.
     Is it better to have worn a coat, only to have to take it off, or to never have worn it at all? Honestly, I’m not sure myself.
     Maybe what makes up a poem is in the letters, not the words.
     Alone.
this is another old one... its also a little sad haha...
Tana F Bridgers Apr 2018
I hate success
Because it seems so intimidating,
It’s bragging,
And only the purest form
Can ever be “good enough”
To drink
And if you don’t reach
For the highest bottle,
Then you “aren’t trying”
Hard enough.

And we can’t enjoy
A sweet sip
Without thinking
About the entire glass.
We become addicted
To the thought
Of the taste
Of the moment
When the bottle touches your lips

That you don’t see
When you have already drunk from it.
a little bit of abstractness...

reading the poetry on here always saddens me...

dang, you guys are good...
Tana F Bridgers Mar 2018
Black, white, and gray.
Black. White. Gray.
Black. White. Gray.
Black. White. Gray.
Black. White. Gray.
Black. White. Gray.
Black. White. Gray.
Black. White. Gray.
Black. White. Gray.
She was made of these. She was nothing more than simple combinations of black, white, and gray. It had been this way for as long as she could remember.
     But some people were different than her. They were made up of so much more than just black, white, and gray. They felt things far beyond her spectrum of understanding. They were more than those three colors. more than those simple components.
     She had heard of someone’s eyes “lighting up” before. She hadn’t understood. She had doubted its credibility.
     But then, she saw it. She had seen this happen! She had watched someone’s eyes sparkle like they were electric!
     She had heard laughter, so innocent, so joyous that she had no words.
How amazing this is when all she was just three colors?

     But then, her world… changed. Her once simple world, of black, white, and gray… Was different. Whenever she saw them, her world would explode with so many new colors. Her black, white, and gray hid when she neared them. Everything burst. These colors, these emotions that she had no idea how to describe. They have made her laugh. They had made her eyes light up like they were electric. She enjoyed their company so much, and yet…
    

How could she explain…

That still, deep down

She is still, and will never be anything more, than black, white, and gray?
Tana F Bridgers Mar 2018
It really has to go, they said.
It really isn’t sound.
This place is trashed, it's falling down,
The ceiling near touched the ground.

It’s rotting floors are too soggy,
The glass is greatly cracked,
The bannister is broken,
And the cushions are all flat.

The refrigerator’s busted,
The litter box is spilt,
There is no television,
And all the photos tilt.

The electric’s out, they said-
No no, please don’t go on.
We know the house is old and broke,
And soon we will be gone.

Many a reason, there is for why
The house has been messed up
For instance, the dinin’ table’s stained,
From many a tasteful sup.

Many a story, a house takes on,
From the family its outside of
the bumps, and cracks, and scratches and all,
They’re just signs of its love.

So when you say its ruint,
I really can’t agree
You see, this house is perfect,
At least, it is for me
Tana F Bridgers Mar 2018
I am one

To type

Just to hear

My fingers on the keys

Just to feel

The smooth buttons

Underneath my fingertips.

I am not one

To say words

That portrays artificial meaning

Just to hear

My voice in the air

Just to feel

My vocal chords vibrating.

But I am one

To wonder which

Is less bothersome?

— The End —