he is like an unfinished painting
a song with secretive lyrics
he spills a line then retracts a paragraph
with his eyes; that wide ocean
of unending metaphors
he watches and keeps to himself
a bag full of captured moments
and i am a bird, perched on an ordinary tree
i craned my neck, yet he couldn't see
my subtle melody, another mystery,
trapped underneath the leaves
i beg for mercy from a worm
that was supposed to be my meal
there are no trees across the ocean.
even in the negatives
i will never be cleared
or towed away in his collection of polaroids
yet in between my words, there he is
coloring the spaces my ink left
filling and filling and spilling
on my bed sheet, in my closet
among the neurons in my head
there will never be trees across the ocean.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
he is like an unfinished painting
a song with secretive lyrics
he spills a line then retracts a paragraph
with his eyes; that wide ocean
of unending metaphors
he watches and keeps to himself
a bag full of captured moments
and i am a bird, perched on an ordinary tree
i craned my neck, yet he couldn't see
my subtle melody, another mystery,
trapped underneath the leaves
i beg for mercy from a worm
that was supposed to be my meal
there are no trees across the ocean.
even in the negatives
i will never be cleared
or towed away in his collection of polaroids
yet in between my words, there he is
coloring the spaces my ink left
filling and filling and spilling
on my bed sheet, in my closet
among the neurons in my head
there will never be trees across the ocean.
New poem, old feelings. Just a reminiscence that loses its significance.
