will you tell me of the hues that drip and bleed onto your canvas—
the streaks
the smudges
the smears.
are they the ones flowing through your veins
twisting—turning
to reach that place I long to call home?
or maybe the ones residing in your eyes
flickering—hiding
behind the mask you too willingly wear?
will you
show me the color of dawn
when darkness sheds its skin and kisses goodbye.
the amethyst seas
where sirens beckon from the deep.
the color of blood
when it meets oxygen’s lips.
the strokes of rain against the window pane
where you spent your autumn afternoons.
the cups of undrunk tea
that your mother left sitting on the kitchen table.
will you
show me the hues of your paint-stained hands
that I have yet to hold
so maybe—just maybe—
I too can see the colors you see.

It is a joy,
allow me to say,
to watch the sun as it goes down
and watch the clouds continuously circle around.
Stop and take a breather from your hectic life to appreciate the creation and its might.
Because even if you think you're big and tall, it reminds you of how small you really are.
Watch the trees as they blow with the strong wind and the leaves as they rattle and fall.
Take a second to realize you really do have it all.

The rainbow is still black and white,
Pitched in various hues,
Vibrant black and sullen whites,
Blending with the blackness inside.
Replete with broken trusts,
Reflecting a thousand shattered pieces,
Fading out like these emotions,
It never lived the light of dawn.

Autumn reminds me
Of your fingers and
The way your hands
Held mine, and it’s
Strange because
Even autumn’s reds
And pinkish browns
Never went together
As well
As you and I
Could’ve done.

Mauve is my favorite Color
A sister to Burgundy,
dusty Rose, soft Purple hues..
Love variations of Creams,
buttery Golden Yellows,
Blues, Teals, Pinks and Crimson

Not so much..the Primaries.
So very saturated and bright,
What captives my attention
is the endless, sumptuous possibilities
blending of spectrums and
hues providing me the most delight

Huge fan of Black...
A non-color
the definitive definition defining
lack of all Color.
Which is actually a dichotomy...
As to create black is to chose a base tone
Then blending a series of other Colors
So that every black
The exception being formulations
becomes a variation of a theme..

The debate continues,
If Black is truly the definition
of lack there of, therefore not deserving the title
of being a Color, where does that leave those that insist that Black is their's (favorite)?
Hmmm, maybe Black is my favorite Color too...

i love it when the sun is setting and all the trees turn black
something about the dark outlines are so beautiful and there's nothing i love more
except you
you are the marvelous sunset behind those black trees
filled with hues of pink and orange and purple and yellow and blue all mixed together into one thing that is way to beautiful to even be real
but it is real and all you wanna do is save it and hold on to it forever but you can't
because eventually the sun will set and you will be left with black wishing for all those hues to come back
no memories or pictures could ever really capture it's beauty
that's how i feel about you
you are the sunset behind the black trees but i know you won't last forever so i'm going to admire you for as long as i can
until eventually my whole world turns black

Gracefully,
my paintbrush
moves from here
   to the
           stars.

Galaxies explode,
and recreate art.

Some fleeting moments pass by-
             like golden hues
                     carrying magic
that is only felt
              when all comes to an end.

the choir grows with the barks of dogs,
the rumble of cars, the fusion of bogs

Hues mixing under a blank sky, I look at all I've done in wonder
Was that me
Or did someone steal my hand for their own poetic ruse?
You see as of late I seem confused
And stay in the atmosphere of here and there
My location wasn't given much care
Physically or mentally
And the moon im under stays blank as the sky
And I ponder if it's meant to be
Ask myself why the ink has all but dried from my well

See

I used to constantly change
Now I stay the same
Uttering words in patterns that are always absurdly similar
Pricking myself with my pen to no avail
Because the blood had too many stories to tell
Most drug on and on for mental miles
That many would cover in a single step,
But I sat frozen,
Observing like this pain was a film

But on nights like this
When I have dissembled myself to the point of belief
Something catches my eye
The eloquence of a blank sky waiting to be filled with ideas, dreams, and possibilities
And sometimes, its enough to wake me from my doubts