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Hisham Alshaikh Jul 2018
You laugh
Angels weep out of jealousy
Devils have no single conspiracy
Demons dancing in harmony
Men hearts go broken with no remedy
Women eyes tearing continuously
Violins break out of envy terribly
Composers have no more creativity
Music plays with no melody
Silence starts listening joyfully
Happiness laughters left in agony
Beautiful words describe nothing but misery
Tulip flowers become colorless shamefully
Believers lose their faith immediately
Infidels drop their convictions instantly
Hearts start beating rapidly
Lungs oxygenating quickly
Living ones laying listening carefully
The dead come back miraculously

--Hisham Alshaikh
You Laugh. Version 1.
Nikki Danilov Mar 18
who gave you the right to give me life when I never asked for it??
and who gave you the right to cry when I stopped wanting it..
Without you
I am colorless
Because,
You are the one,
Who gives color to my life
© Authentic Rose
© 2019
Lon Witter Aug 2018
I often dream about the life
in colors shining and dazzling
purple, pink, yellow and lime
and with lights such blinding

life changing like the seassons
but keeping the same warmth
life is a such preacious thing
like the flowers in garden you love

But I'm going to wake up in the end
and will return to my colorless life
full with misery and disappoinments
and try to live to reach the next night
just to see the life in my dream's light.
Pyrrha Nov 2018
You are a work of art made in black and white
You think life is colorless and bland
Alas, I don't like to leave white spaces
You are my canvas now and I promise
To put the color back into your world of monochrome

I will turn your life into a whole *** spectrum
ABOVE THE FUCHSIA COLORED CITY
IS A FRENCH ROSE COLORED SKY,
COLORED AS ANOTHER NAME
OTHER THAN THE CLOUDS OF WHITE
SALT AND BONES.

THE CITY'S AIR SMELL OF GREY
ELEPHANT'S BREATH AND POETRY.
I BLAME THE LEMONADE  COLORED
RAIN THAT DIDN'T FALL TODAY
FOR THIS CONUNDRUM.

MAYBE THE RAIN IS PROBABLY
SOMEWHERE SITTING STILL
IN THE HOT SEAT OR MAYBE IN
HEAVEN'S COLORLESS TIGHTLY
CLOSED LAP.
SITTING
               THERE
                          THINKING
                             ­                WHAT
                                                       COLORS                      
                                    ­                               GO
                                                                ­         BEST
                                                            ­                     WITH
                                                                ­                         WILD
                                                                ­                    EMOTIONS?
Dead Rose One Mar 2015
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set**

orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till
                                               spring"

the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
                    too much insufferable

having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit ****, u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run
                                         concurrently


there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****,
tests and hunts,
I have successfully
                                 failed

of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader
                    men

maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted

where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in
                                             immediacy

heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
                                                    smothered life

but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a *******
                       mirror

there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
King Panda Nov 2017
I see a ****** of crows
parting the sky with
a ******* V

it hawks and blecks
down as if to say
good afternoon
to the child wheeling
across federal
on her
pink bicycle—

a travel
that rots and witches
the sweet, grey air
sailing into clouds
of pounding tide—

jewels

colorless
and divorced
drifting
across the
blue-domed
pearl of
missing you
Valsa George Jul 2018
on a sea strand,
have you watched empty shells
mercilessly tossed from sea to shore
and from shore to sea?
      
often I shrink and reduce to such a shell,
with jagged and broken edges
colorless and empty

among many a debris cast on the shore,
i lie half buried under the sand
waiting for some mighty wave
to wash me away
all the way to the sea

how tedious is my voyage
shuttling from him to her
and from her to him
unable to openly confess
who weighs more
on the balance of preference

through how many alleys and by ways
I have wandered, questioning my identity!
am I a puffer fish, being toxic
the fisher men have discarded?
a jarring note in a discordant symphony?
I wonder....! I often ask myself!

destined to grow
in mercurial climes,
planted in arid shallow soil
with the tap root trimmed,
branches pruned,
growth denied,
I, a stunted bonsai!

still I dream to be a towering tree,
that in profusion gives fruits and shade!
a ****** aspiring to be a Goliath
a hollow reed,
longing at once to be the singer and the song!
When a divorce occurs, the threat of losing the home and losing the purpose of life confronts a child, especially in the younger age. Children of divorced parents experience a real trauma and they begin to doubt about their own identity!
gabrielle Feb 7
the wonderful world
would cover up my affection

the sky's gradient in every dusk
would cover my colorless self

the earth's mighty wind
would blow my tears away

the night's luminous stars
would outshine my endless love

the land's languid flowers
would bloom before me -
while i withered of your love

in the latter time,
i will be forgotten
caused by the pain of the unrequited

the world's grace
and the universe' elegance
will conceal every agony i have

but in every fantastic disguise
wouldn't care to obscure
that you don't love me too
we have an amazing world,
it can keep out of sight the things we are not capable of obscuring.

and as for the truth, it can never be hidden.
Julia P May 2013
ALL
you're all but a very good liar.
you're all but an empty promiser.
you're all but a scared coward.
you're all but a lost follower.
you're all but a faithless kin.
you're all but crossed evil.
you're all but a hateful heart.
you're all but a graceless needy.
you're all but a failure achiever.
you're all but a suffer burdener.
you're all but a joyless runner.
you're all but a worthless coin.
you're all but an angry untruth.
you're all but a boneless spine.
you're all but a colorless sunset.
you're all but a dry leaf.
you're all but a vague talker.
you're all but a manipulated idea.
you're all but a voice absurd
Telling me - i'm not good enough.
© JP
It  pains me to  see
You in the arms of another
To see you bear happiness
in the comfort of your lover

If I could replace every moment
with a moment to be with you
Cherishing every second
A moment sweet and true

But in sorrow, they turned to memories
So Colorless and so pale
Your photograph, my only remedy
Still, my heart becomes frail

Oh, to see you again!
Immense joy it would bring.
Renewed in every moment
To each moment I would cling

But it still pains to see you
For me knowing the fact
You're still in the arms of another
With whom you made a pact

And it pains me to know
that I am a witness
of the love that was before me
and your lover's sweet caress
Anne J Dec 2018
Thy is not blind, thy is full of life
Yet it be thy eyes has lost all soul
Thy colors have fallen and brutally died
There’s no hope, to find them is no more

Black, grey, whenever and wherever you go
Never to reappear in this monochromatic world
All colors have gone as if they vanished into below
Get them quick; they’re in hold!


Children will hear, children will be told
Of the story of no colors around
Only black and white are left, as the rest are mold
Grey in the sky, grey on the ground, colorless all around

Yet, in my hands, in this little polychromatic portfolio
I am still able to see the colors that left so long ago
I made this poem for an English project for the first semester of my freshman year in high school. I can't believe that was 2016, and I'm already about to enter into 2019 as a junior...Time sure flies! I was looking in google drives and suddenly saw this, and I knew right away that I had to upload this.
As you can see, even when I was younger I had depressing ideas for poems ****. Looking over this, it's not only nice to see how much I've improved, but also strange how I typed out gray in the British form (grey) when I'm American lol. I left this poem without any edits to show my work view of mistakes. xD also more lol I rhymed around twice in the third stanza.
Final lol: there was 2 spaces between the 2nd and 3rd stanza instead of one like for the reason of spaces between he four stanzas. I left it there to show how much I've grown lol.
pitch black god8 Dec 2018
I.      the smell of sad

odorless colorless like *****, similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling sadding, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will S’s),
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
still stink

don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ******, your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I,
who has your sadness smell into my skin cells creepily crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face

there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all

this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present
Becca Feb 25
‘I need help’

I said as I grasped for words to describe the un describable

‘You’re fine’

My hands slipped off the mountain as I feel into the colorless void
Rowan Deysel Dec 2016
Caucasian cadaver in the windless woods.
Carelessly hanging from a tree.
Colorless face looking down.
Carrion yet to be seen.
Creation of an evil man.
Displaying his departed art.
Completed, his compelling plan.
Of helping death do its part.
Few colors, fewer sounds.
White skin contrasts the black dress.
Faded yellow floating all around.
Splatters of red fill the rest.
A frightful figure that overwhelms.
Above the confused and thorny trails.
All the shallow know themselves.
At the sight of this female.
Breathless before being dangled.
Dead before being displayed.
Beautiful body, cold and mangled.
Death magnificently portrayed.
Multiple stab wounds in your back.
Added to the smell of war.
Mind immersed in barren black.
Gnawed eyes to watch and adore.
Dripping, dim and dreadful.
The portrait he wanted to smear.
Your future as empty as your words.
Your hollowness shown clear.
You don't know what you're missing. 
Elders still die, the young still grow.
The leaves below are hissing.
At the corpse of a girl I used to know.
Made when I was an angsty, silly teenager who just got dumped by his first girlfriend.
Fool Oct 2015
You flip, you writhe;
the outline of your body dripping onto me.
And how could I,
spectator and obsessed child,
stop salivating at the sight of your shapeless body?

The lights die into your hips,
your cheek melting in dim slate blue.
Your lips hover above mine.
Your eyes whisper "******" ;
please **** me,
so that I may never see another light again.

And your formless dancing,
a quill that drips in colorless ink.

If I cut you open,
you would bleed oceans into me;
the blood of a god,
water as clear as my love for you.

Your movements hiss,
your shadow tangles.

Please.
Let me touch you.

But your lips curve
and you
prance away from me.
What hides behind your teeth?
What secrets nestle under your tongue?

I've never seen a creature as wild as you.

Your eyes whisper
"******".

**** me,
so that I may never
love
again.
Jesse stillwater Dec 2018
It was Winter 1st
   not long ago,
the longest night
lay bare next to me
    like a dream
     that passes
        silently,  
     then recurs —
hearing the silence
   whisper softly
as a colorless echo

      Withal —
    the shortest
    yesterdays,
half light minutes,
grey wintry mood
     moments,
  without hope
   of blue sky
impending lightly:

      Alone,..
   even a glass
      half full
under a solstice
     full moon,
  is only a glass
     partly full
  of moonlight

Twice as much
       silence
still leaves you
   half empty;
  and every tear
tastes the same
     in winter


Jesse stillwater — winter 2018
Thank you for reading, wherever you may be
I still don't sleep well at night sometimes. I miss you, whoever you are, or maybe I just miss having someone close to me I can put all of this love into, an outlet for my affection. Whatever the case, I spend my waking moments wondering where you are and my moments asleep wondering when. It's honestly getting harder to tell the difference between the two, the two infinite worlds of possibility where wild, unexpected things happen. Or don't. Sometimes the reality is more interesting than the dream.

There's a certain sense of tranquil quiet when you're lonely that I can only appreciate for about 5 minutes before my heart grips against its iron bars, looking for a key or a file or a spoon to leap its way out of my chest to freedom and adventure. It writes Morse code letters on skipped heartbeats to you, but I am a miserable translator and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for my past, for all the wrongs I've committed in the nebulous black leviathan night, the almost-nightmare state of bleariness and hypnotic suggestibility. Clarity only comes when you spirit your marble curved likeness in the warm wooded embrace I do so long for in waking life.

I ramble and you float away, O kind angel of faint hope, white stone wings beating tremendously in sync like the buzzer of an alarm clock, striking me asleep again for daylight, somnambulating across the barren black-tar desert in search of water and finding only more black sand.

The nights have become more torturous without your colorless gaze. Please get here soon so I can tell you about how I've known you all my life.

With fondest regards,
Christian
pitch black god8 Apr 2018
5 Sensory Deprivation Relevations  (Happy Birthday Will Shakespeare)


I     the smell of sad

odor colorless like *****, similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling saddlng, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will’s)
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
stink

don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ******, your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I, who has your sadness smell into my skin cells crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face


there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all

this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present

II    the taste of joy

the joy of cooking is not a gene in my litany possess,
but the buttery taste of joy I know, I know,
it’s a real princess rarity,
the hard costs of finding and keeping it,
I’ve paid endlessly and willingly pay on

the taste of joy is like presents under the tree,
shock surprises delights lives/life, customized, infectious
(except for socks, no matter how joyously exceptional),
joy to those whose buds never blossomed for its taste
readable on some one else’s, anyone’s ****** expression

I think of it as the taste of fast traveling cumulus whites
upon my eyelashes blinking as they are speeding you by, but happy
for ten more behind before the evening stars takes over

the taste of joy is physical, there can be no denying,
concentrations can be found in the lips and the fingertips,
which you think of as a tandem, someone else’s on mine

but it ain’t necessarily so; the taste of joy, shared I, having submitted to others kisses carried on the wind that
found their mark and were well received,
poems from the heart
that arrive well,
as their intended is sleeping, and
as intended, as waking gifts

the taste of joy in droplet tears
when you are notified that words
you joined in holy matrimony made you cry,
because the reader did, wept for two,
the weeping of contentment released,
free at last from container confinement;
this particular taste of joy is in the  
recovery and recognition that these
are not for you,
just joy peculiar these tasted tears for whomsoever sheds them

III   the hearing of truthful

truth am told is oft served cold and hard up for the hearing,
best avoided tween noon and midnight and any time a
bathroom mirror is in the vicinity; though religious men lie
too easily; bathroom mirrors cannot; a character flaw for sure,
but the truth to be trusted is this: no one is truly contented, always there are the richer, the more famous, the employed and
someone above who has more, more burdens of a different sort,
better quality losses and pains unseen not dreamed of

truth tastes terrible and is awful sometimes noisy painful;
it hides well in the stink of sad exposed to the atmosphere when exposed it turns red humans blue

truth may set you free, free to be what are you are or truthfully
an admission of what greatness you have to release the trick is
use the correct scale, do not let the wrong sized ruler rule you,
the truth, if you hear, hear it unfiltered w/o the bias implanted
by not your people; hear your poet voice growl like a blues singer and be truthfully satisfied like no thing no person only you could hear it as you intended it be spoken

IV   touches of fantasy fantastic
secret confess: touch my fav cause when its juiced with
mental visions of what might be, it Saturday satisfies and let me weep happy smile silly and is mine all mind; yes another’s tip
has sorcerer powers of revelation
but alone by myself I yet
relevate
and flow; my hands are right sized, my arms reach around myself for so designed, and the pleasure is mine to give;
mine to take,
neither better or worse if self-administered,
touch myself anywhere anytime and fantasy over dreams wins,
rise up, touch is a language and I speak six or a hundred;
listen to the sounds of touching and be touched human

V  insights for the sightless

at last we close the deprived
with an elegant elevation
sight overrated when imagination exists,
cannot be restrained
this the revelation
you have proffered and preferred all this time

have pity on me
I crystallize the unseen with the replacements
of my conjuring
the other senses lend a hand
telling me look up look up, be life save life
let your madness blossom in the spring airs,
the coolness of a first fingered ungloved snow
sight,
a mathematical function from the other four derived,
sightless an impossibility for with one alone defeat the
sensory deprivation and give tongues to words

epilogue

read my face
incapable of,
deprivation
but how now silent bow my head to Will
for teaching the way of words
traced upon
a fool or a king's tongue,
two too human,
so that poet may ken
his senses keener,
all for the better,
for the betterment of all
and now you understand how came this poem to be writ
in the pitch black
Daisy Marrow Oct 2013
I found you in the cracks of winter between puffing breaths of cold air like a dragon, on that cold Wednesday afternoon. I swore your eyes were the ocean, and I could see all the way to Europe. You held your books like a shield guarding your chest and you introduced yourself like a king.

We talked of Bukowski and Frost in between sips of lukewarm water. I fell in love with every pause you took and every time you blinked my heart beat increased. I was surprised you couldn't feel it from across the table.

You showed me the scars on your legs and arms you've gotten over the years. One from jumping off a roof into a pool. One randomly showing up when you woke up that morning. And one from that time you had a tumor removed from your chest. You told me don't feel sorry for you and don't feed you sympathy because you have been full for years.

We spent the next couple of months telling secrets. You told me I was the first person you have ever felt comfortable with in a long time. You kissed me so silently and slowly it was like breathing underwater. Forgive me if I sound selfish but I could not stay under the water any longer and I couldn't hold my breath for another second. I gave all my wishes and stars to you that night. I wrote poetry on your skin that we created when our hands touched.

We explored the mountains and ate picnics every Saturday afternoon. We ran from the rain as we saw the clouds roll in, we sat in the car and played truth or dare for an hour straight. I promised you I will love you until we're old and I'll have to feed you with a spoon until this action isn't anymore romantic but necessary instead.

It was a Tuesday at 2:35 in the morning when you were experiencing pain. I drove you to the hospital.

Our love was like a mother teaching a daughter how to slow dance for the first time; clumsy.
You didn't know how to hold me properly anymore because you were to busy holding medical bills in your hands. When I see these papers my mind loses focus and all those words form one big blur, and they become wet with warm teardrops smudging the news across the white crinkled paper. I turned off the tv that night and we actually looked at each other staring like we were both blank canvases and had painters block for the first time ever. That night you packed a suitcase and went away in a taxi. The hospital wasn't too far away but I couldn't bare to see you walk into that place again.

It was cold and it was Sunday. The doctors tried everything they could but it was already too big and eating you away. Old friends were always bitter when they weren't welcomed back but stormed in like a hurricane destroying everything the future has to hold. Your eyes were colorless and your hands were too fragile to hold anything. My heart was beating out of my chest and my palms were shaking. It felt like I was holding an earthquake.

You were only 21.

You had a warm heart and a beautiful brain. You were drained like rain-soaked up from the earth. I wished I could have taken you places and brought you flowers. But it was always too cold to go somewhere and all the flowers have disappeared away until next spring. For on now I'll just have to bring you back to life through words and hope not to cry. Another love is too far away to see and my vision is blurry but I don't want it to be clear. For I fear that I will once again become too selfish because I can't wait forever for you because death is miles away, and I'm not ready to see that side of my life. But when tomorrow starts without you I guess I'll just go home because, sweetheart, all the dust has disappeared.

Let us praise the time when we flew to Vegas one night because we were board. Praise the moment when we were so full of glee that time we won $20, and how we ignored that fact we lost $600. Praise the day our car broke down on the side of a mountain and so we finally got a chance to talk to each other and confess our problems. Praise that moment we meet on that frosty December. I hope your ghost waltzes at sunset with my shadow. I know it's only been a few years since we meet but for me, it was a lifetime of happiness.  Let it be known you are engraved into my brain and I'll always remember the time I saw you clutching books to your chest and puffing dragon breath.
just rambling
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