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Miguel Soliman May 2018
Describe the color purple without using the word.

It is the color of his shirt at 5 in the afternoon, reflecting the hues of the inked skies with its highlights and shadows. He loved wearing it because it symbolizes the color of your first conversation, calm yet ready. It is the color of the ground underneath the both of you, uncertain yet just right. It is the color of his eyes, dark and at the same time heavy, like lead. You look right through it and see the piercing gaze of a person with a huge heart, yet all at the same time afraid. It is the feeling of his hands holding yours tightly until it becomes a faint bruise. It suddenly becomes too much to handle and you’re left in agonizing pain as the world suddenly stops.
It is the color of his skin, bombarded with bruises that he has hidden for so long from you—bruises from his past that he decided not to show, fearful that if you saw it, you would let go. But you don’t. Instead, you embrace the colors of its marks, determined to stay still and steady. It is the color of his words, unsure of the next to come. It is the color of his neck as your lips dance along to his body, fearless and reckless. It is the pulse of his heart as you listen intently, knowing well enough that it syncs perfectly to the sound of the pulse your heart makes. It is the color of the wind, ready to engulf you along with it.
And finally, it is the sound of his voice, scarred and wounded but never backing down. It is the color of the signs he continuously manifests, in hopes that they will reach out to you. Yet it never does. Instead, you translate his colors to a romantic manner, instead of an uncertain, friendly gesture. You are mistaken of his colors, blindly allowing yourself to be engulfed in a world of fallacy. You are unaware but it is the color of fabricated lies, bound to pierce your heart like the color of sharp knives ready to go through. It is suddenly not his colors anymore, but rather, the colors of what he once was.

  May 2016 Miguel Soliman

*If I were a poem
I’d ask you to fold me up
and put me in your pocket,
then at the end of the week,
toss me in the wash
with the rest of the clothes

And when you find me later,
smudged and smeared,
ripped and tattered into
little unrecognizable pieces,
don’t worry about it,
I was already like that
I have been notified that this poem was plagiarized and posted on Poetfreak by someone using the name Blurry Face. I can assure you, this is my poem.
Miguel Soliman May 2016
"i'm okay," she says to everyone.
her nights were nothing but wet sheets and wailing walls.

"i'm fine," she tells everybody.
her room is filled with nothing but a crying voice and a hopeless soul.

"i'm happy," she proclaims to all.
her wrists more crimson than brown and her eyes more red than white.

"goodbye. i'm sorry," she begs.

**And that was when all knew that she wasn't really okay at all.
I loved her deeply while she hated herself.
Miguel Soliman May 2016
I often get asked why I never ran after you when you left, and I always answer the same thing:

The moment I look at your eyes deeply, yours were already locked with someone else's.
  Mar 2016 Miguel Soliman
Midnight Rain
you haven't read her
until you feel her words
still rattling in your head
for days.

because her poetry
will always **** a little
bit of you as you read.

her words are bullets
to the heart, you can't help but
bleed long after she's gone.

& death is to those who choke up
on them and feel it clawing
up the back of their throats as they try so
hard not to cry.
Inspired by a poetess and a dear friend of mine.
  Mar 2016 Miguel Soliman
Mfena Ortswen
Home is a lazy day
With earphones on
Sometime in May
When rain has come

Home is a warm bed
And a soft, cozy blanket
A waking yawn at twelve
When morn and noon meet

Home is in the midst of friends
Talking boys or latest trends
Where there is no bad blood
Only love's abiding bond

Home is in my dreams
Buried in faraway things
Things I never had
And might never will
Miguel Soliman Mar 2016
She was a form of art,
for him that would be true;
hung in places like his heart,
so all could see and view.

She was like no other,
for him she's all that mattered,
her beauty too precious to cover
and hide; to flaunt, she'd rather.

She was his favorite color,
for him, a vibrant yellow hue,
an orange, a blue, and more;
that's what he loved for sure.

She was his favorite song,
for him a sweet singsong tune,
where his world could be forever long;
enticing was her rune.

Sadly, that was what all she was
for him, she cannot be with,
a love that's never meant to last—
a poisonous bitter seed.


*"You loved me, right?" She asked him.

"That's all I ever did."
Happy World Poetry Day.
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