Driving myself mad with believing that I am so easily pushed out of your way.
Infuriated with the past three years of being hooked in the mouth because I remember the satisfaction in your eyes.
Indignant for allowing to be reeled within your palms that have stayed just as sweaty, as unsympathetic, and as rough as i can remember;
just to be booted back into the water again.
Looking back, I was under the impression that you were merely a lost soul, a ship without a captain, and ultimately a lost cause.
**You still are.

When I did a good thing
They said it wasn't right
And when I did the right thing
They said it wasn't good.

Sometimes I'm stuck between deciding
What's good and what's right
'Cos sometimes good can be wrong
And right can be not-so-good.


© Raphael Uzor

Blue eyes on a clear day.
Bluer when the sun hits just right.
I've seen her eyes the bluest when the kid in the red shirt showed up.
Her eyes locked and practically green.
A color on her I've never seen.
Like the seasons changed, so did her eyes.
Eyes so far from the blue skies that once drew me to her.
Jealously struck.
She became a monster.
Green eyed distraught.
I might have lost her.

*Green eyed distraught when it's pouring outside and your sky tells no secrets.
Your petrifying skies that force me on my hands and knees until they bleed screaming
"SKY, WHY DOES HE THINK MY EYES ARE GREEN?"
Seemingly colorblind after he struck me with his lightning,
radiating me with yellows, blues, and pinks
and I'm sorry that I'm still dead and cold after everything.
He wore the wrong color.
Shirts as red as the passion he had only for blood.
As red as the stop signs that I will not let keep me from moving forward.
Deciding to run some place warmer.
Writing you a letter on a purple piece of paper.
Where the sun hits just right.
Signing it, "Sincerely, Your Darling Little Monster."

Unintentionally void and constantly in a vortex of disobeying laws, morals, drinking too much.
Struggling with figuratively wearing my seat belt but getting in the car anyway.
**** IT. I'LL HEAD FOR THE HILLS.
I slam my foot on the gas peddle.
Skull through the windshield.
Crashed into a tree.
In a drunken masquerade, I'm picking all of the pieces up from the wreckage around me.
And forgive me, because I forgot how beautiful that hour long drive was.
Forgive me because those car accidents weren't and left pieces of me on the highway.
Because I'm working towards the day where I will never let green lights scare the **** out of me again.
Trying to find the rest of my pieces solemnly and natural.
Trying to get my license by next week.

Unwanted thoughts trespass and climb the attempted latched up gates of my mind every night and my house is too small for more dogs.
I'll tattoo on my forehead that my heart is dead and my soul is lost in your thick blanket fog.

I will remodel my studio apartment from a ****-hole into a tower so that you drain all of your power, finally never able to reach me again at all.

But too bad that I'm a coward and the hammer smashed my fingers and I knew that I would give up all along.

I know that I'll leave myself with the same wooden mess,
the same heavy chest,
and all the more bitter and sour.

I know there has to be a reason why I never feel naked
when I step into the shower
and I shouldn't be blaming you anymore.

Anymore,

you’re just another

cold shower.

Naked tree

in the

winter.

If I fall over when the wind blows or if I shatter when pelted by rocks then you suction yourself to women like a parasite.
You're the one that runs with your tail between your legs from one clap of thunder.
You lust after our blood, from one ***** to another, and I just feel bad for her now.
So I suppose you're right.
You are the statue and I am the leaves.
You're at a stand still and I go where the wind takes me.