Brisk--
a slight whisp of northern wind
rustles rainbow dewdrop grass,
around me, blooming trees
breathing deeply inward,
their fresh foliage is an assortment
of all green hues, a relief
from the freezing, chill drab grays of winter...
Dandelions splotch [arts of the grass--
nature's lazy Jackson Pollack homage.
The sun seems brighter,
the lighting a stereotypical 1950's Leave It to Beaver-esq TV show.
Here I sit,
wearing all black under a tree;
the only thing colorful about me is the gold writing
on this Pilot jet black pen dribbling these words
in gooey black ink.
I woke feeling uneasy & forlorn,
like rising from a haunted bed.
Not sure why...
Even the dogs in this park trot
with brighter velocity.
A small grey/brown Scottie yipps at me,
as if letting everyone know I'm an anomaly
on this otherwise perfect day.
Part of me wants to scream
at all the people in their colorful neon running garb
or shimmering salvation Sunday cloth,
but another part just wants to jam this pen
through my ****** straight into my heart
& let the ink & my crimson, iron-rich blood seep
into the ground,
because those are the closest feelings
I've found to express something there are no words for.
Sounds like it might be one of those angsty
cloudy type days.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
Brisk--
a slight whisp of northern wind
rustles rainbow dewdrop grass,
around me, blooming trees
breathing deeply inward,
their fresh foliage is an assortment
of all green hues, a relief
from the freezing, chill drab grays of winter...
Dandelions splotch [arts of the grass--
nature's lazy Jackson Pollack homage.
The sun seems brighter,
the lighting a stereotypical 1950's Leave It to Beaver-esq TV show.
Here I sit,
wearing all black under a tree;
the only thing colorful about me is the gold writing
on this Pilot jet black pen dribbling these words
in gooey black ink.
I woke feeling uneasy & forlorn,
like rising from a haunted bed.
Not sure why...
Even the dogs in this park trot
with brighter velocity.
A small grey/brown Scottie yipps at me,
as if letting everyone know I'm an anomaly
on this otherwise perfect day.
Part of me wants to scream
at all the people in their colorful neon running garb
or shimmering salvation Sunday cloth,
but another part just wants to jam this pen
through my ****** straight into my heart
& let the ink & my crimson, iron-rich blood seep
into the ground,
because those are the closest feelings
I've found to express something there are no words for.
Sounds like it might be one of those angsty
cloudy type days.
