She is the unsung lyrics, the pieces of her favorite quotes stitched together. When one plucks the lyre of her heart melancholy melody soothes another heart.
She is a pallet full of rich and moody colors. Sometimes she is bold like the streak of red of the sky at dawn or delicate as soothing soft colored pastels. At times she's vibrant with her colors high on hue and at times she is dim and quite.
She is contoured with passion; whirlwind of colors coaxing the brushstroke as she is canvassed.
She is the evocative strokes of a tempestuous soul of curious contrast; an exquisit chaos.
She is the raw, broken tiles pieced together into a mosaic s intricate masterpiece like picasso's.
Her body Her soul is constantly moulding sculpting into a phasing masterpiece.
She is an album; a gallery. She wasn't built to validate to be understood and loved by all She's supposed to make you feel in the way she thought.
For she is the enigmatic narrative of her truth and a beautiful ambiguity.
Live in poetry Hold unto novelty Never settle Never just be **** being content Sadness, emptiness, happiness, despair, love, hatred, wonder They are all colours Why paint in black and white when you've got the whole spectrum?
Some pour any ointment they can find upon their insides so that they might stop the aching, in some attempt to make all they can focus on a blur. So that all they bottled up can flow away and stop the drain upon their life.
There are those who sit looking at canvases that they might seek to mark so many times it would create something of beauty if it would only hide the ugliness beneath. As if to carve some crack through which a light might shine and blot out the dark. A light that might be found as friend or mother or lover that on the other side is a life preserver, a sanctuary, a single point afloat in all the world held onto so tightly the white knuckle ride that would seem to only end when they let go.
But to let go, is to fall.
to fall into that sea that numbs that crowds that never lets up.
To fall and stop so suddenly the world gives out below.
Were it not for those who hold us tight in some attempt to pull us up there would be but one thing to stop the fall. The people we talk with and dance with and live with can be the only things holding us up, but those lines feel so thin that they might break at the slightest tug so we hope they might somehow form a net, something to catch us and carry us away to shore,
where finally we can lay and rest.
My first piece, not sure if i'v set it out so it reads as it should, feedback is welcome.