I never really liked poetry.

I never really liked the crimson roses
that spilled from my fingertips.
I never really liked holding hands
with cosmos made of truth.

I didn't want the pearls
behind my eyelids to sing.
I didn't want to hear the screeches
that danced on my tongue.

I never really liked the ruby strings
that strangled my coarse throat.
I never really liked the charcoal fingers
that itched my ivory wrists.

I never really liked anything.

Until stars fell and galaxies
succumbed to my eroded feet.

I liked the way the burning skies
lived in the veins of my heart.
I liked the way my eyes bled
endless oceans alive with emotions.

I liked the sugar coated lips
perching on the branches of my head.
I liked the blossoms blooming
from the tip of my voice.

But still,
I don’t really like poetry.

an orange hangs in the sky
air sweet of citrus
the falling star
paints clouds with the spectrums
of a youthful heart

the thin ebony fingers
at the edge of the sinking skies
reached for the
sink      
in  
g
darkness

goodnight.