I guess I’ll follow you
I guess your way’s what’s true now
I guess this means goodbye
To my old life
Shades of grey swallow me
Every single day
Please show me how
To make sure
That I can be ok
Shades of grey swallow me every single day
ravaged stark grey sky,
cloud towers are razed, gone;
coward rain slips down!
Batool Jun 13
There she was
lying still on the couch
posing the best she could
with her gaze transfixed
deep into his eyes
basking in the thick silence
that surronded them
the only sound of his charcoal lead
stroking the paper could be heard
His every stroke defined her curve
a little better
His rough hands blending the lines
staining her soul a beautiful shade of charcoal
She could feel him
making sure strokes
thus bringing the woman on paper
to life
she felt her heart slipping ...
slipping from her hand
and on to the paper
the color of her skin fading
and reappearing on his masterpiece
the fullness of her lips
was nothing
as the beauty on his canvas
now owned it
the last thing she felt
was the twinkle of her eyes leaving
adding the final touch
to his creation
and it was when
he broke the eye contact
taking with him
the beauty he sketched  
he left ...
not knowing that
He left the masterpiece behind
on the couch .... !!
I wanted to bury my feelings for you, deep within the ground so it was out of sight.

Never knew it was a seed, sprouting and blooming. It was beautiful you see  just one of a kind.

But I get it, you won't choose it.

Who would pick a daisy in a garden of roses.

And then you picked the one with the most thorns, now it's painted red just hiding in the colors.

But it's actually grey because you left.
Why would you even pick the flower that bloomed for you
Mrs Robota Jun 10
Dreary office job
Rain knocking on the window
Bland client phone calls
Amiso Pius Jun 1
Black and white       
Brewed,
and grey is born.                        
Colour me grey.         In,out.                      
And i'd paint the world anew.
Let it be grey.
It has never rained like this before,
I like it this way.

I don't care if it is night or day.
For all the times I have felt sore,
Let it be grey.

They will not come today.
No one will knock the door,
I like it this way.

There is nothing for me to say.
I want to listen to the clouds roar,
Let it be grey.

The wind whistles my stress away.
And I have nothing to cry for,
I like this way.

My mind wanders away.
My eyes marvel at the downpour,
Let it be grey.
I like it this way.
I leave this poem to your perception. Feel free to interpret it the way you want to. Happy reading!
Lisa May 31
Plagued by a flagging heart at the very mention of Brazil,
and the poor habit of scrolling to Capricorn at any and all astrological babble.
Meaningless and heedless whether together or apart,
tyros or hedonists,
perhaps both.
A volatile amalgam any way you slice it.

My best poems are about you,
my worst thoughts too.
Lisa May 31
Not separate entities, but a knot of limbs tangled amongst plaid sheets
Constantly touching
My leg wrapped over your waist, yours hitched over my small frame
My awkward arm that wasn’t awkward because nothing is awkward with you
Your hand always at my ear, combing my hair
Crisp kisses, delicate scratches
eyes closed, quick gasps
I shouldn’t be writing this, I should be forgetting.
But there is something special about you and I can’t help myself.
s Dec 2017
When you ask me if I'm bored
of listening to your thoughts,
and stories that lack plots,
It makes me wonder
what boredom means to me
and why it’s beauty that I find
in apparent mundanity.

You colour my life in every tone of grey -
in a nourishing and poetic, underrated way.
Grey is the soul of every colour in the world.
Invisible and aligned - right between extremes -
like all things well designed ought to be.

Or maybe because grey
feels like routine
and you’re the everyday
that's to come and
that has been.

You are where I set my bar for normal;
You are my Sunday night pyjama informal.

You’re my common sense,
and my reality check,
my perspective lens,
my goodnight peck.
and even your grim phone voice
and plotless stories on sleepless nights
are part of the palette
I've come to adore,
painting magic
in monochrome.
Next page