"colourlessness" poems
**There was a part of me that thought this
Could go on till infinity
A part that wanted to stay locked in your arms
There was a part that believed we'd always find answers
To always mend the cracks and keep enjoying the charms
There was that part that kept hoping above all hopes
That the heartbeat of our affection never stops
That part that endured the thorns of roses
And your conundrumous tantrums in doses
One that wished we wouldn't run out of second chances
It was responsible for all those backward glances
There was a part that believed would keep reigniting the spark
No matter how cold the shoulders you gave us**
*But then there was another that saw darkness in our spark
An end in our start,pain in our gain
And fatal loneliness in our company
That at her inception our love had died
There was that part that felt how breathless we were
One that saw us on feeders even while still on tar
A side that always knew we wouldn't last
A side I loathed and didn't trust
One that prophesied like all metals so would our passion rust
No matter how strong we believed that ours true it was
However hard we evaded the looming wars*
And now there's this part, that sends voices
Through the cracks in the scanty shards
Consequent to your goodbye and other choices
That still believes in us,this part says we have to try
That even if it makes us cry
what are tears
but a colourlessness liquid that will dry?
This part wants another journey with you
This part doesn't know Alphabet, it places I right next to you
This part sounds quite convincing
I think all along you've been the something missing
Precedent to the hollow emptiness in my heart
Come back, let's hurt each other again
After all even apart I'm lonely and it drives me insane
And I get more mad seeing you wallow in the mire of pain
Maybe hurt is a constant but we can
introduce variables to outweigh the aches
Come back,stop asking why it all went wrong
We will never know, maybe we was too weak or strong
Can't stand my mind saying you're my Exe
While another part of me thinks you a part of me
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 11:49 PM UTC
i.
dusk doesn’t feel like an end to me.
gladly, we play hide and seek amongst monuments
made in retrospect, and the sun doesn’t make us
go home until it’s already past dead. we drop
hearts on the unsuspecting, play make-believe in the
style of world war ii documentaries your grandfather
watches on the history channel. winston
churchill played with fire the way we play with
matchsticks and death and dying make
cameos fit for better actors. your rocking horse isn’t
fast enough. nagasaki still stinks of radiation.
ii.
we breathe, virtueless, shoes untied and headaches no
tylenol can hope to amend. there is
money involved, as there usually is, and
bills are exchanged from hand to soulless
hand, stench of cannabis like perfume in the air.
sobriety is elusive–you, effusive–we toast to
ambiguity and *** between stoners and
sinners. The ****** of yesteryear haunt street
corners we use for battleground, though the
fights take flight on rusted wings within the confines of our
heads, vacancy signs flashing in our pupils.
you reek immortal.
iii.
colourlessness is inevitable, but you always liked
noir films. i play you on first base, set myself
against flesh still pink with love bites from december
chill, and your lips tell a better story than
anything in black and white. we consume–we are all that’s
left. we don’t speak english until sunrise and by then we’re
telepathic. i don’t need words to say i love you.
iv.
we part, gasping for breath without sound in
clothes that don’t yet fit us right, doggy paddling because
they don’t actually teach you how to
swim in high school PE. you’re a
cartographer, your hands are
maps, and i am left bereft, grasping at substance too
thick for breath. i stop breathing, then, and
you haven’t held my hand since.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
If colourlessness was a colour
Let the world be painted colourless
The world,
In which I can see through you.
The world,
In which you can see through me.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 10:26 AM UTC
there is no wind. no movement.
the dust on the box is now its paint
also its paint is the sunlight that comes in from the creek of the window left ajar.
the windowpane, is broken from the edges.
on days of storm, this window strikes itself hard, back and forth, sounding an alarm for an empty home, to run and bring back clothes drying on the line.
there are no clothes. there is nobody to run. nobody to bolt the window shut.
everything is still. and melancholy.
but there are noises. the chirps? the cooker whistling? of water running- overflowing from the bucket, of an urgency to close the tap. of the gate. the gate opening, the fan whirring, a home. noises of a home.
there is colourlessness. the curtains untouched for weeks.
the walls, magnolia on some parts, cement on most. paint on some parts, crayons on most.
a broken toytrain, a doll with no hand sit on the showcase. there. dust sits on the toys.
carefully painted pots, filled with soil, but devoid of life. the soil craves to be watered.
but there are sunsets. was it red? or orange? the aroma of tea. the sound of the box of biscuits being opened, sound of children screaming to catch the ball,
chirps? birds returning to their nests. returning home.
oh.
there he is, with his wrinkled veiny forehead resting on his wrinkled veiny hands, in the corner of the room, at the window, all alone, lying on the cot.
his eyes red and watery, of age, of wistfulness, could be either.
his foggy memories and and the window banging in the other room don't let him sleep.
Jul 30, 2020
Jul 30, 2020 at 3:48 AM UTC