Ride Red Tricycle
ride soft and slow,
through cool breeze
and bloodied knees,
through the sun
and the snow.

Ride Red Tricycle
even when the sweat
glistens your face,
you are whole
you are pure,
you are in
first place.

Ride Red Tricycle
your time is slowly running out,
your tires are deflated
your innocence,
degraded
you almost can hear
your mothers shouts.

Ride Red Tricycle
far away from those shouts,
and never doubt those pedals,
while simplicity is still alive
because once your tricycle is gone
life feels like a lie.

Ride Red Tricycle
because that crimson complexion
never lasts,
soon it will be ghostly white
and all that will be left
is rusted memories
of the past

You said once  you'd sew my uneven edges back together,

You tried, but the stitches popped like over worked violin strings that you still tried to play

The audience filed out as the procession of broken music danced through their conscious and out their ears.

They did not applaud.

But I did.  

My hands rediscovered each other over your failure to compose  

You were remiss to the horrible noises that covered the auditorium but I gave you a standing ovation.

And if my uneven edges became broken violin strings than your soul become the worn down ebony that let the strings go.

If I were to paint my body a certain color I think I'd choose blue
I wouldn't choose black, it would be too telling
And any bright color just wouldn't be true.

Blue would be a median.
A wave in the sea of many, passing by swiftly. Undetected.

A tear on the cheek of your most loved friend. Falling down with no exact path in mind. Melting into the kitchen floor, alive one second, gone the next

Blue,
Would hide the true shadows. The cobwebs in the corner of the attic that incase old photo albums we haven't opened in years  

But Blue would also be honest,
Blue would not be the sun that paints circles of joy on your face,
Or sand castles on a summer day.
It wouldn't be fire, destroying everything it's tips grazed, there would be no flame.

There wouldn't be any point to Blue,
It would just be.

It wouldn't see
Or feel
Or speak

With blue there would be no emotion, I'd just be a rolling sea of bleak.

lonely eyes fall on deaf ears

-a six word story