The words that I made
Did they fly somewhere?
Fly and shoot in the air like radio waves?
Did they fly to outer space?
Spaghettized in a tiny black hole
Then ***** x-rays?
Did they succeed?
Or they just stay black in white?
'Cause I can't even teach them fly

People don't understand
Blood must flow for blood
Before it can allow water
But in the end
It will all turn to ice

I'm collecting dead wildflowers in a jar.
I've been watching their color fade,
wondering just how dull they
may grow at the end of each day.
I leave them in my windowsill
and let the sun drain them of sustenance.
It's quite interesting how easily
an item of livelihood
can lead to such tribulation.

I know that the
grass is green and
sun red, but sometimes
yellow like dandelions,
and the earth is brown
just like trunks of trees.
I know the skies
are painted in blues
that eventually fade
into mauve, at some point
coalescing into the seas
and limpid waters of
sun-kissed beaches, where
strange exotic fruits would
entice with violets and amaranths
redolent of a night on
some far island, stood
beneath the stars whilst
they shine white like...
a million ways out.
Each one a brush,
showing me the palette.
But everything just looks
grey and dark and
black.