He tells me to paint him a picture,
paint it with strokes bold
I nod and cover the canvas in gold.
I throw some red in there to show my beating heart.
He knows nothing, not even our start.
Our love's purple, a war between red and blue.
When we dance, we're red
like the devil's tune.
We're splattered colours and broken palettes.
We sit at beaches waiting for our fates.
He could choke on his own cigarettes
but I won't leave him
till he tells me to paint another picture
with strokes bold
till the air in our rooms is no longer cold
till the fire has destroyed our pretty pictures
and his ashes cover my bones.

I'm awake all night
I'm awake all day
the restlessness won't go away

They think I'm worried
but I'm not
my thoughts are just tied in knots

confusion lingers in early hours
and continues 'til it's late
As my body starts to abate

The inability to sleep is killing
So I sit and write with ink
And caffeine in my drink

Music playing loud
and I'm waiting to be found
and sleep in silent sound

I'd like to thank you.
Yes, you.
For taking the time to read this.
I've wondered who really takes the time,
To comprehend what I throw on the page.
But whatever it means to you,
You're not wrong.
My words mean everything,
Yet nothing.
They imply love, hate, fear, courage,
And all in between.
But I'm asking you.
Yes, you!
What does all of this mean,
To you?
-Mike

Life is like a poem.
It always has a start and an end.
What happens in between defines it's worth.
However sometimes this worth leads to knowledge after its end.
This is a legacy and a goal for others.
Unfortunately goals like poems can sometimes fall short.
Left as a scrap with broken hopes.