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Khaab Oct 2020
It was an idle evening
And I was sitting in the lap of Past
Resting my head on her chest
As she slightly moved her hands through my hair.

I told her about....when I painted
With colours and brushes....a colourful world of mine
When canvas and sheets were drenched with bright colours
Bright colours like red, yellow, green, orange and so on.

But now...I can't even recognize them
They are lost in some dusty drawers
Somewhere I can't even remember
Now I live in a world of black and white
White pages drenched with black ink...

Did I lose my bright colours?
Or am I just homing in this black and white world of mine?
From canvas to white pages....from paint brushes to black pens
There was a time when I used to draw and paint all day...but now I just write...I have completley forgotten how to use these brushes and paints...It's just I miss that time. Now it's just me and Poetry♥
AD Snail Oct 2017
It aches, it twitches,
Thee heart beats are off tune.

Its burning in the acid it created,
Trying to numb itself with physically pain,
To help ignore the spiritual.

Red ink clogging its system up,
As it starts to self destruct on itself.
Unable to handle the black ink,
That's making its self known amongst the red.

Sync does not happen in a unstable heart,
Only scit **** beats that are signs of a deep sleep to come.
Free Bird Feb 2016
She only writes in black ink;
her thoughts are much too dark
for the blue.

— The End —