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ShiroPoems
They used to mean something, The words that I would write — A pane of shattered glass That filled my dark with light. Like a refuge from the storm, Or a beacon’s guiding light — They pulled my wreck from midnight seas And brought me back to life. They used to mean something, I guess, to some, they do — Like flowers in a vase Arranged for public view. You fall in love so easily, With every painted hue — Your reds and yellows, greens and blues, Are gray brushstrokes to me. I hope this means something, These words I’ve now restored — A poem’s pain through which you'll see My heart ablaze once more.
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Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 4:48 PM UTC
With White Ink
They used to mean something, The words that I would write — A pane of shattered glass That filled my dark with light. Like a refuge from the storm, Or a beacon’s guiding light — They pulled my wreck from midnight seas And brought me back to life. They used to mean something, I guess, to some, they do — Like flowers in a vase Arranged for public view. You fall in love so easily, With every painted hue — Your reds and yellows, greens and blues, Are gray brushstrokes to me. I hope this means something, These words I’ve now restored — A poem’s pain through which you'll see My heart ablaze once more.
#poetry#identity#authenticity#performance#vulnerability#disillusionment#visibility#greed#passion
Shiro
Written by
Shiro
21/M
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 4:48 PM UTC
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