It was glooming—
static with lines of red, blue, and green,
the colors that make up what we’re allowed to see.
The screams of yearning pass by,
the ache of tears that never fall.
The stars dim,
light unknown,
while the moon crescents its quiet nose.
The pale green sky makes me wonder why
Hurt and pain can’t be taken back.
The voices you hear
Are you—
and the parts of you that stay,
even when they’re cruel.
Life isn’t fair,
And neither are the apples that don’t fall far.
The world is abstract—
painted by a sun that burns and feeds,
chlorophyll and color
That somehow still makes me bleed.
Paint me clean and dry
until tears admit
that anger isn’t real—
But the hurting is.
Tell my mother and father
I would leave them to cry
the way they left me to run,
to ruin the image
of the daughter they planned.
The jokes were never funny,
The arguments never won,
just heat dripping from words
that cut cold in our fists.
The soreness of being alive
lingers.
The world crumbles
under the weight of its own meaning—
of sins, of choices, of us.
Screech my heart apart, I say—
Yet it was already scattered
in the voices lodged deep
in the larynx of other people’s minds.
The world is abstract.
And we are only paintings
of our broken decisions.
May 4
May 4, 2026 at 9:17 PM UTC
It was glooming—
static with lines of red, blue, and green,
the colors that make up what we’re allowed to see.
The screams of yearning pass by,
the ache of tears that never fall.
The stars dim,
light unknown,
while the moon crescents its quiet nose.
The pale green sky makes me wonder why
Hurt and pain can’t be taken back.
The voices you hear
Are you—
and the parts of you that stay,
even when they’re cruel.
Life isn’t fair,
And neither are the apples that don’t fall far.
The world is abstract—
painted by a sun that burns and feeds,
chlorophyll and color
That somehow still makes me bleed.
Paint me clean and dry
until tears admit
that anger isn’t real—
But the hurting is.
Tell my mother and father
I would leave them to cry
the way they left me to run,
to ruin the image
of the daughter they planned.
The jokes were never funny,
The arguments never won,
just heat dripping from words
that cut cold in our fists.
The soreness of being alive
lingers.
The world crumbles
under the weight of its own meaning—
of sins, of choices, of us.
Screech my heart apart, I say—
Yet it was already scattered
in the voices lodged deep
in the larynx of other people’s minds.
The world is abstract.
And we are only paintings
of our broken decisions.
Please comment, and like guys lol any criticism would be great too or if u relate idk
