I got my room painted today; my old walls were scarred, chipped,   worn...memories
But the past is in the past, the paint has already  dried. So why can't I forget? Why can I still hear them, the memories echoing through the room like restless spirits.
I just have one question, if I peeled back a coat or two, would the scars beam with pride? And would the walls still bear the scars proudly?

I guess a new coat will be good.... still underneath the glaze of perfection, the scars are still hiding and the walls are still whispering...
Yet I will remember,
only
me

Where there are no words that connect.
With all the colours that you feel,
To watch letters paint freely into each other
The magic of life,
It is indeed.

I adore you.
That is all there is to it.
Sometimes red poppies blossom in my stomach because of it
Like ***** watercolour water it grows increasingly murky
I find it is a beautiful shade of hurt and soul
It contrasts nicely with my porcelain casing
Like a tea *** I am poised to empty my contents
I adore, you.

They’ll end up calling me
“The one with all the paint samples?”
If they ask, they won’t
know my favorite color
because I won’t know
my favorite color either
And so my soul, too,
would remain unknown

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

A white page
The blankness staring mockingly at me
Mocking what I haven’t done
What I should’ve done
And what will never be done

A pencil
The tip barely brushing the surface
Yet staying paralyzed with no courage to scrape across
Knowing that the smudges will stay as scars
And forever mar the picture

Time flows forward
The page staying perfectly blank
No mistakes and no accidents
Perfection at its best
Surrounded with the pure whiteness of fear