Believe even when the sky seems it'll never turn blue.

I will not atone to a world
with swift heavy fists
demanding the bestowing
of my hues.

It’s been sixty days since I’ve put pen to paper—
my feelings to ideas—
who I am to what I dream—
I need to read in order to fly.
I need to listen in order to guide.

Alone I fish the Atlantic with my fears
I can’t cherish raw moments with my peers.

I’ve returned to prove I’m brave.
I don’t want to be normal.
I want to embrace my crooked thoughts—
my dry skin—I want to see colors.

I’m not just living in an idea.
I want to make reality my realm.
Somewhere I can feel love and cherish
the clouds—my spirit dust.

I don't want to smile.
There's no use of showing teeth or feeling God's air against them.
If you want pain--I have the keys to the shed.
If you want love--

I'm on that ship headed north.
I can't promise you I'll return from this journey.
But I want it--I am human.

And I must find the hues I don't own.

Love is blue hues peppering away

She fears planes
because she’s always been scared to fly.

I am he that needs redemption—
Does the Earth know exemption?
A boy and his pen I dream of books.
A boy and his pen I dream of quasar.

Now redemptions on your mind when you think about me.

I was ready to love you in white trim
You found delight in embarrassing me.

You taught me that night—
I’m not him.
These pages I overwrite
with words I whip to curse you
like a purple gallinule
may you never soar.

He wasn’t a flower
they were too exquisite. (although he wanted to be, so he could make people sneeze)

                                 He wasn’t a cypress
they were too resilient. (otherwise he would have cracked the concrete)

                                 He was born a ****.
(A yard reckoning wild black mamba)
In the ground, he felt smothered,
digging to a world he never knew.

                                 He was an anomaly
someone who no one desired to water.

                                 He was a problem,
                                 a pest,
                                 something like
                                 Fruit flies in a Florida summer
                                
He was a stain,
                                 a blood smear on an angel white Kleenex.
                                
He was a pain,
                                 a sturdy lump in her kidney the doctor had to explain.

He dug                     through boggy dirt,
                                 carving away.

He dug                     through swampy mud
                                 while the sky hiccupped tears,
                                 constantly, continuously making
                                 a path that he could climb.

He wanted—freedom
                                 a love amongst the elegant lantana.