First date of Miss Yellow and Mr. Grey Sky
They met in the eastside
Talking about the earth and the light
How to shining bright within dark side
And how to let it rain in the night

It's not easy
But it has to be
Perfect match of the storm and windy
Quite beautiful even rising gloomy

The clown keeps a journal filled with his suicidal thoughts;
His face wet with paint and his hair soaked in dye,
he laughs to himself as he reads the words scribbled across the pages.
They crescendo like the build up of a joke -
splashes of ink blots suggest that his pen blew up before the punch-line.

He remembers a time when the earth was grey;
the morning dew seeped into everyone’s socks
and they walked around with heavy feet,
indifferent to the man beside him
walking on the bare flesh of his toes.
Then a stream of water dribbled out from the prank flower on his chest.

In a world so addicted to tragedy,
comedy is sublime,
like the nicotine rush from a cigarette.

Yet laughter is a bond so easily broken.
The white on his face can wipe away,
the lipstick can smear,
and the dye can fade.
But beneath all of that is a smile,
a smile that persists
because nothing is wrong
when the clowns come out.

I am you.
You, who feels the grey underlay.
You, who can feel so happy and yet at the same time the numb weight is beneath you.
You, who can laugh, smile and wave because you’re so good at being brave.
You are happy.

You, who talks to their friends,
You, who loves another human.
I am you.

You, who thinks about dying and just stopping being.
You, who knows that something’s wrong,
But, you’re fine.

I am you who lies horizontal with the clouds, feeling the grey underlay but always reaching to keep your face in the sun.

No one close to you will ever know, but I know. I see you. I am you.

Static
------
A mixture of
Coloured pixels
Combining to make
Grey
--Uncertainty--
Vibrating from ear
To ear
Pulsing through
My mind and heart
        -- why--
A colourful mess
That I both comprehend
Yet
Yet....
It's still a mess to
--Compreh  -end--
Each pixel seemingly
Jagged
-- No -
.
.

Stillness
Just the usual static
Except
In the wrong place
At the wrong time...

nothing is so
            small that it is
            inconsequential

and yet everyone is
            blind

sickeningly bright
            cities
                        with their glittering thousands
            flicker and burn
                        glimmer in the sun
                        and crumble to ashes in the yellow-grey
                                    belly of night
            and all resurrect at dawn to
                        die
                        again
    ­                                and again
                        without a moment of awe or any consideration

the sidewalks pulse
with
deep blue rhythms

a steady
           dull
                        drumbeat
                        lur­es immortal souls like a magnet
            with each
            metered throb
                                    pounds
                                    illusions into their malleable minds
                                    of meaningless mortality
                                    and empty entropy

their eyes glow with infinities but they
walk according to ephemeral rhythm
            marching through their cyclical days
with strings
            tied to their shoes
convinced they are free and
            that their grey and blue dreams
are the only colors
in the universe

Cold sneering leaves stick through frightful roots
Green shatters droplets of desire looking to ensnare views
A crescent wind sticks through circular layers ripping with bitter apathy
Yet paying to days of grey