Laburnum drooped its yellowest
Dull before me, sadly displayed
Benevolence turned jaundice, yellowish
Jealousy's desire, flowering sprites made
Yellow-eyed-monsters, distrust, umbrage

His look, laburnum, fallen eaves
Sun captured smote, yellow-eyed
Uttering to himself, "Mine," and "Me"
He went on as such, yes, fellow cried
What I saw, coveting, all yellow-eyed

Today my mother gave me yellow pillow sheets
and I freeze at the thought of falling asleep to your favourite colour.
I wonder if she knows my pillows are the only company I keep.
They are the ears for all the things I could never tell her.

They recognise the weight of your head,
the touch of your skin and subtle kisses.
They know when you’re not around and when I’m wide awake
and play the lullaby of your heartbeat and giggles.

I wonder if she knows that I still think of you till the Sun rises.
And if she’s saying “It’s okay if you find it hard to let go,
but here’s a list of all the different colours
you can paint over the ***** yellow.”

My walls are now of an endless storm.
They are the clouded memories that will keep me warm.
So no-
I don’t want to fall asleep to your favourite colour,
I don’t have to.
All the grey still makes me think of you.

he leaves his
window open
so the rare
wind whistling by

through a dust-coloured
day; in a
dust-coloured cell
on a dust-coloured
treasure chest lie

his faded blue
attire, worn and
patched by gentler
days,

greyed gracefully
to dusty black;
new wrinkles
on his face

weigh him down;
a faded
treasure chest
stares at a cement
coloured wall

over his head,
and the lonely
voiceless mist,
blinding; hear it
call

to rusty,
dark and sunless
sky, reflected
in his eyes,

when a bright and
impish countenance
eclipses tired
sighs;

the tired rusty
treasure chest
five decades
hibernates,

to feel the stirring
light of grey,
to feel new
hope, awaits

the cold and
stinging storms
that pour, taste
salty youth again;

the dusty
yellow rain boots
melt, ecstatic
in the rain.

T. E. Pyrus
https://lampteacupoverthinking.wordpress.com/

How distasteful you are,
With your sundry splotches
and jarring imperfections.
Oh, you taunt me so!
Whether your anathemas
are reflected through the mirror or my own eyes.
Oh horrible, hateful, heinous thing!
I cannot bear to stare any longer.
How sickly your color is--
A pallid yellow, like one giant bruise
That has budded and blossomed
In some unnaturally grotesque fashion.
My blood boils, my pulse races
And I raise my weapons to fight--
Two talons--claws honed to perfection.
Be gone, you wretched scab!
And so I tear, scratching furiously,
Until no more of you is left.
The blood is stuck beneath my fingertips,
Or what is left of them.
My sinews tremble, ****** and bare,
As the last of my wallpaper
Is ripped from my bones.

Let me write a happy poem
and paint it seven colors

Red for the burning passion
and orange shows emotions

Yellow for the friends i made
and green for peace and truce

Blue showing the calm ocean
that steer my ship slow motion

indigo wings that help me fly
so high in violet sky

Seven colors to paint my life
and hide the blackening rife !!

It’s the color of the sun
The one with rays that beat down
And warms your skin on a bright
Summer day.

It’s the daisy garden,
The one just outside your front door;
It’s scent, so fresh and sweet
Fills your nostrils with the smell of summer.

And the sweet, sharp wheat
The ones that make you sneeze
And yet you can’t help
But drag your fingers lightly against their flesh
And take in their musty scent.

Or the shutters of your neighbor’s cottage,
The ones with the soft pastel that stands out among
The white siding
And the pale door

It’s the bow in your daughter’s hair,
The one that she fought
But you insisted,
Because it’s beautiful
The way she looks in that hue.

And it’s the color of your happiness,
The one that shows through the bright smile
That stretches across your face
And bleeds golden joy.

Nothing makes my day,
The way a yellow lightning bolt
On the top right of this page does.

he's black, white,
and read all over
by acquaintances in his
circumference of people.
but no one asks,
no one takes the time,
to inquire behind
the gray mix of his
black and white appearance.
perhaps he's a light blue,
or a pretty yellow
that mistakenly ran into
some gray along the way,
but no one knows
because they'd rather spend
their sunday morning judging
a black story on a white page
than exploring the vast depth
of an intricate person.

My body is a lighthouse
Desperately, searching
For her in the darkness
Hoping that the yellow
Light leads her back to me