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I can't find the words
No matter how hard I try
I've scanned the yard, I've looked outside
I've even looked to the sky.

Where did they go?
I know I saw them
Wrote them, took them, found 'em, catched 'em
Why, why, WHy?!


Escape my grasp!
**** those words, they're too fast!
They astound, create, they flabbergast!
My brain can't catch a sight!

Fine, leave me!
See how you'll do!
Even though you've got nothing to lose
(and I've got an assignment due).
I'm stumped.
If want was water,
I would be drowning, my head under completely
and my oxygen quickly depleting.
If confusion was cold,
My fingers would be numb and I wouldn't even
have a coat to ward off the freezing.
If youth was you,
It would be slipping away by the second,
And I can't get a hold to stop it.
my air is gone,
I'm shivering to the bone,
and can't keep a hold on.
But, this is only a poem:
I know I'm not suffocating, subzero, or slipping.
But I can't help but feel like the more I write,
the farther I get from reality
and the closer I get to metaphor mortality.
I walk through Hell
To heal the fallen angels
Because halos shine brighter
In the glow of the underworld

They've abandoned God's light
In search for another
For within a sinful plight
The hater becomes the lover

And perhaps I'm them
trapped beneath an expression
Because in place of my God
I am stuck in depression
the first word I searched.
an idea now purged.
as the whisperings merged.

not insane, simply choices.
as my subconscious rejoices.
for many are voiceless.

so melancholy, so loud.
too soft, or too proud.
one person, or a crowd.

not deafening, like quiet.
or hungry, like a riot.
a lull hum, near compliant.
the paper, torn
old garments, worn
faces, forlorn
ancestors, born
towns, dust
forbidden, lust
crime, just
metal, rust

these days were sepia
like everything around
the trees, the grass, the lovers
even the cobbled ground
trapped in torn parchment
in a long forgotten attic
in a colorful world
more theatrical, dramatic

sepia, sepia, sepia
and only still
forgotten, denied
only a cabinet to fill

and soon, you and I too
sepia will take
our faces drained of color
nothing left to make.
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