The familiar siren echoes against the street's pavement
the blind maiden seems to play favourites against my colour,
as if the cover of my internal organs speaks of my character
and the caricatures show the nakedness of my colour, my skin.
If beauty is only skin deep, do I weep from the labels I wear?
Do I tear at my skin to rid the chains that bound me to history?
Does my glistening skin seem more tainted as time passes,
or do I scurry away to live in the separated classes assigned to me?

The green of the grass reflects off of my skin, I am green
I have been as blue as the ocean since the day I discovered life and death,
with each breath I continue to realise more and more about life,
like how my future wife might have to answer "you're with him for real?"
The teal of the sky would remind her to be patient with people;
life is a story, the sequel is how we choose to wield the pen and write,
the white blank paper may be filled with dots and marks,
like our heart it may contain scratches and bend but we defend it
because being defenceless in this modern day is a call for exploitation.
Colours should be labels given to objects,
why can we not strive to give a new label by removing our blindfolds,
why can we not just say I have a soul made of gold, or I am beautiful,
why can we not find more labels that are suitable in describing character?

The blind maiden is slowly starting to look pass my skin
and lawyers with pockets lined with green are not a definite win.
The barriers between classes seem to have tumbled, so stumble and fall,
we've all built our own defences in life, our own barriers,
but when shall we stop building and start breaking down barriers?

Leave winter days for winter, the summer might just yet vanish.

Will you be my valentine,
my sweetest lover dover?

Kiss me in the evening,
hiding neath the cover,

Of darkness coming quickly,
for morn' will come to soon,

Will you be my Valentine,
beneath a waxing moon?

Ma Cherie © 2017

.
I think I may have just died
looking in to your almond eyes.
Cedar hues of beige and brown,
for me such beauty in which to drown.
Chestnut and umber, darker shades,
silently dissolve my barricades.
Soft bark pastels of hazel and fawn
delicately hold my heart reborn.


© Pagan Paul (09/02/17)

My mother works as florist, she cuts and arranges flowers in order to make it pretty. Even though my mother works at home she never has time to sit down. She is always in a hurry and never has time to worry. My mother has a mentally sick family, it runs in the blood but skipped her generation and found its way to her children's brains. The sickness came as a lightning from a thunderstorm - totally expected. Yet, my mother never saw it coming because she never had time to sit down and listen to the thunder roaring, she just turn up the volume on the radio, which only played happy songs about love and flowers. Inside the house the flowers wither from all the depressed children compressing the air till there is nothing left. Everyone sits at the dinner table gasping for air while fighting for the attention of an uncaring florist. She never sees the pain in her children's eyes or how their always wear long sleeves even when the flowers are blooming outside. My mothers children never felt pretty nor good enough so they started cutting their own skin.