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Bryan Lunsford May 2018
Since she walked away I haven’t known what to do,
With all of my colors that have turned gray–I’ve been left to only feel this color of blue,
As there’s not a shade in this world that could ever replace her hues,
My sight and mind has been left in a haze–and left ever so confused,
With my eyes that stay closed–for I’ve been blinded by the truth,
Wherein the only thing my eyes want to see–will no longer be in my view,
So go ahead and paint my world however you wish and want to,
As you can paint my whole world with the most vibrant and amazing hues,
But until the day that she returns–all my eyes will see is gray and blue
Another Jun 2018
The first sign of a dream approaching is that when you’ve already awoken,
awoken to a strange place with no trace of how you could’ve gotten there.
And the unfamiliar, faces near, with eyes similar to shards– shaded  
you can’t help but notice those feelings emitted were somehow something you’ve come to known before,
but where?
–a notion coursing its way around a soundless observatory only to further dissipation—
A sign of discord covers the room,
all that was allowed is furthest from you,
a parched paper made from what seemed like rugged twine knows nothing but lead between,    you find a face emerging from it,
quickly drawn with detail,
there it stops from motion to undulating surpass,
away from a darkened room up in front of a morning taking.
This conjuring source flairs outward
rising through the outworn canvas
leading it to embers
dancing away along a fizzled plane
for what was despair inscribed in this meaningful dereliction.
To what is empty from emotion is nonexistent,
I couldn’t find the reason to live on,
this dream has died as will I... as will the will of this way this place carries over me.
Yes decay follows me,
unto everywhere will there be the silent breezes to carry me past the concrete terrain into nothingness.
I find myself to live this over,
until the advent of air drowns these lungs to knowing again,
to know exactly what it means to breathe again.
I see no reason for such things as unrealistic as they may seem likely for me to occur in this living.
Again I’m stuck in a room full of my owns thoughts,
such a dangerously sorrowful place to be.
‘For everything as it may have not been
weary am I for looking forward at
The things that never happened’

‘Turning over everyday, repetitively’

Let’s just say that this isn’t personal but for those whom share a common fate. Until overturned.
In its most rawest.
5.3

Parallels:
Snow, for me exemplifies a mute understanding from in juxtaposition with various types of sadnesses that branch off into disparately inclined yearnings, to nostalgic preferences, whether known or not. Why it happens is of course obvious but the way it affects you, makes one wonder, if at all— I think I’m trailing off my train of though here, I’m not sure where this is going..

This was inspired by a remarkable composer, as I recalled a dream before, along with the yearning of trying to expose my underlying expansion of myself with my current understanding of things. what it all could mean as much of his cello’s presence affected me during that process. I’m the gray area that needs deciphering.

—continuations:
the cello that wails the loudest, is one that suffers the most. Even so, every tone encapsulates the listener with resonance. And in that, it reaches its utmost vulnerability, showing the many hues imbedded in an infinite sadness, in an astronomical way, a type of exquisite somber, that resides in the instrument’s hollowness until implementation of procedure.
Cné Nov 2017
Skies are gray today
and everything is okay,
come what ******* may.
emilienne 09 Jan 2017
Waves of remorse approach the shore
And recede back into the ocean once more
As these memories crash against the beach
I look back on what made me weak
I recall the bridges that I burned
And all the cards I left unturned
In this purgatory I will stay
No capacity for dismay
There is a poem by tay-anne called "The Only Lecture That Really Matters".  Tay's chilling quote from that piece, "Because a life lived in purgatory is better than one lived in hell" inspired me to write something with an atmosphere of apathy.
Stephen E Yocum Sep 2013
She comes many times
completely unexpected,
On padded paws,
Silent and stealthy.

Not a hint she is near
'till she jumps in your lap
and meows her first greeting.
Though so softly, as to not,
wake even a sleeping baby.
She is sweet beyond belief,
wants only to be loved
and give love in return.

She never insists like some
women I have known,
Rather she waits until
you're completely done eating.

Soft Hypnotic gray eyes
intense in their gaze captures,
at once your full attention,
Then gently she places her
tiny head right in your hand,
Seeking your touch of affection.

Her motor purring starts,
growing ever loud and louder.
Then she begins rhythmically,
Kneading your chest or stomach
with her front paws as she would
have done her own mommy,
But it' s not milk she seeks,
it is love from her human,
physical, emotional contentment.

She would sit all night,
in my lap if I let her,
yet she can sense when
I have had enough,
Knows when to quickly,
quietly take her leave.

Truly not many,
females like her.
Advent Oct 2014
so tell me,
what are we?

black or white?
yes or no?
living or dead?

we can't get stuck in between

not in grays,
in maybes
or in hell


a.t.
wes parham Oct 2014
Pour one under the table for those who walk outside.  In memory of Spalding Gray, for what he meant to me...
    Thanks, “Spuddy”, for sharing your inner life.   Thanks for having the courage to bring so many troubles into the light.  You laughed at your troubles and allowed us a way to laugh at our own.  You put a voice to carrying an unbearable shyness or an excess of fear along with us as we go through life.  You strived to care when caring was out of fashion and in short supply.  Thanks for reminding us that life is the journey, and not only the destination.  You wrote a book.  You played a minor role in a feature film.  Those were some of your destinations.  When you shared your journey, you did it with humor, humility, and with love.  Thanks for reminding me that storytelling is all around us.  Thanks for reminding me that it need not be complex.  You were merely observant during your journey,  and you shared it through the lens of your own perception.
    I learned this January that life became unbearable for you.  If only we, your audience, could have comforted you or somehow stemmed the river; the flood that carried you to leave so early.  I would like to believe that, once you died, you might be able to hear our collective voice.  I imagine that you are able to see the people affected by your work, some inspired thus to create works of their own; tell their own awkward stories, sharing them as you shared yours.  I am far back in the line, and I eventually arrive at your table.  You flip a page in your spiral-bound notebook and take a sip of water before glancing up inquiringly.  I only have one thing to say, really.  “Thanks, Spalding.  Thanks for sharing”.
Written after I learned of Spalding Grey's suicide in 2004.   His performances, full of a bare, self-deprecating and personal mania, touched me as they made me laugh.  They said, "I feel this ridiculous *******, too".  They said, "we get by anyway, despite the confusion, the fear, or the pain".  They inspired me to share some of my own self in personal narrative or poetry.  He wasn't any idol to me, I just felt his passing strongly since his own work had inspired me, personally, to live just a little bit more.  Life's a collaboration.
Gabriel burnS Jul 2018
I felt it crumbling
I felt it falling with the rain
The invisible
I felt it falling
Bits and pieces
Shreds and ribbons
The clothing of my wings
As God unpacked the wraps with haste
Like a restless child
Tearing down the gift
Together with the wrapping

I felt it falling
Scorching on the skin
Of frail reveries
Soaking wet I felt the taste
Of gasoline
And drowned the rain
Into my eyelids
NR-MAN Sep 16
This planet a palette

Its people shades of gray

Not separate, but

Apart I'd contrast hue

Man now knows variety
Tammy M Darby Jan 2018
Ask Germany for they surely know
The tales of Heil ******, death and gray snow
As the blonde Fraulein's with blue eyes
Strolled the avenues inviting and slow.
Delicate flakes kissed the putrid air
  Neath their feet lay the ashes of innocent souls
The ****** winds of approaching war and salvation would blow.

Oh Germany my liebchen
There is no denial
Mitt dear you were patriotically complacent
Turning your eyes away in shame
Pretending you could not face it

Sipping schnaps ignoring and abetting the genocide from afar
In warm cafes that closed its doors tightly shut
Smugly shunning the arm branded gold stars

6 million and counting were blindly lead to slaughter
There was no preference
Only Jews non human
Beneath their feet
It was of little matter.

Cast your eyes to the floor
For my lady you most surely did know
When the smell of fresh death filled your nostrils
Drifting down from tall stacks
  The scent of pungent thick gray snow

Some would feign surprise
Others of course truly were
But those touched by evil
Denied ****** freely committed and known  
Whence sprang the fire source
The smell of charred flesh
Into the sky ablaze the souls arose  
So came the infamous days
Of falling gray snow.

Tammy M. Darby Jan. 17, 2018.
sans screens Sep 2018
During these gray days

During these when space seems
To have a million dimensions

During these when uncertainty
Governs you

During these when the cold
Invades your body
Even at 38 degrees

During these gray ****

During these when one kilometre
Seems immeasurable

During these when every chair results
Uncomfortable and every table
Too empty

During these gray days when it seems like you are
Too big compared to how small you feel

During these gray days

Remember that I love you

That my hand can reach any part of the world
If you need one

And that experiences need to be lived

But there will always be

A couch,
A white dog,
And a grumpy girl
Whose a little insane

Where to return
Angelina Aug 2016
To: Sarah Joyce Crimson*                                                     8th July 1943                                                  

A man in a gray suit has captured my heart, mother
Along with the tie, of course
Surrounding plants would've died
At his gaze and grace

Armored charm and wide toothed smile
His last name could've might as well been poise  
I don't know what it is about him, mother
But his gentle crinkled eyes certainly isn't  

His voice is as flattering as the lullaby you once sang
The tone itself symbolizes warmth and stability
Undiscovered treasure in the midst of all volumes
It is home I feel closest to when I catch a glimpse of it in my ear

I don't know whether to feel astonished or quivered
By all means, that'd be deemed as eerie
But you once said when a man one day turned my cheeks bright pink
It sure could only mean one thing

It is unreliably evident not to notice me blush
It is even more apparent not to notice his blunt stare
Sending chilly shivers down my spinal cords
Activating fondness I'd never in a million years imagine I'd sense

If only you were here to see for yourself
How proud I'd make you, indeed
You said one day I'll be able to marry, mother
Well, this day isn't as far planned as it once seemed  

                                                       ­               *From: Christine Louise Crimson
Dawnstar Apr 8
Bold Captain Gray comes down
To islands warm,
Where tawny men are chattel;
Sees brightly Patrick Spens
Survive a storm,
And wants to win the battle!

But when the cannon
Shots roar all 'round them
And punch a hole in th' aft deck;
Laments that Spens was found
A man too "holey"
Murmur around the carrack!

What were his last words,
Tell them to me boys,
Or I'll get raw with fury!
For Patrick owed your
Weight in Spanish coin;
God stablished I his jury!

But when the men had
Still not loosed their lips,
E'en under pain or menace;
Says Gray, what senators
Be these lads who still
Possess no fear of penance?

Then comes the lookout boy
From up above,
Where long the mast had held him;
Says, Patrick Spens just
Gave me his last word;
See here, it's writ on vellum!

Then up the captain roars...
And makes to burn the stores...
For tricks the crew had played...
With rage, the captain said:
     Beehive the rightless dogs, to hell ‘em,
     Give me the answer scrawled on vellum!
a song
Marla Jul 18
my cold little world
is spinning violently,                                          
                                     its sensations grappling
every semblance of my spirit                                
                          ­                as everyone keeps living
and i just...
i've been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand
Matt Shaw Jun 2016
the dim lit rooms where i met your friends, i left
for the dry winter with salty roads
the drive down the east coast
the blizzard on the way back to PA

the spring and summer
when the bottom of my stomach still stung.

hospital stays
and steady paces into the snow
saw the eventual melting and resurgance
of this spring
except when the flowers came up,
they were all gray.

and when the trees all blossomed,
they were all gray.

and when i looked in the mirror,
it was gray too.

and nobody talked to me
and you just laughed and said
*good riddance
Hollow Steve Oct 2018
I'm ripping myself apart again,
as the wind continues to call my name.
Its presence subdues me
Maybe I can be myself again?
But then I realize,
There is no self
Only hollow grounds
And I play catch in the hole.
I'd rather something pull me up
But there is no such grasp.
My love bids farewell,
As I shed inner tears.
I know it to be temporary.
Nothing lasts forever
And nothing really matters.
As if the pain could overcome my numbness,
I most likely wanted this.
My love, my ache, my other regret.
If I was dead before,
I am still so now.
At least this painful void is gone,
And you helped me set it free.
I thank you again for the remembrance
And I hope this all makes sense.
But my place remains the same
Where do I go from here?
I didn't notice you were dying because I loved you so much;
I couldn't notice all you needed was water to drink
And I was running around with oceans.
Dante Fernando Nov 2018
Let the mystery dance,
At the top of your breast!

Whereas the angels roar,
And the cross leans on your soul!

Let the moon awake,
On you head!

Whereas your eyes glow,
And your skin shapes your sword!

Even the slightest needle would
Go across your fingers,
And write a prophecy,
On the walls of your bedroom,

In which no disciple will blaspheme,
To the storm;

May Temptation be your servant when,
Every day becomes red;

May your tears be your salvation when,
Every song gets,
Your priesthood's grace,

For a caress cannot be revealed,
If it does not cleanse,
The wind's dirt!
L Jun 21
Cryptic.
Miss understood.

At it again.
Your one and only friend.

But is it
What is seems?
Falling apart
At the seams.
Are you thinking what im thinking,
Are you what you think you are
You me? Are you, me? Im not
Sure, you are.
No?
Stesekes
Sunshine Odhner Dec 2017
Optimists and Pessimists remind
That the moon knows not it's own shadow,
Or to be kind to the desert sun.
                                                        
                                                    (Midnight, Noon, Midnight, Noon).
Light: an unstoppable force,
Dark: an immovable object.
                                                         ­                       (Twilight, Twilight).
Dead leaves turn into rot,
Seeds turn rot into leaves.
                                                         ­                        (Equinox, Equinox).
Check my watch,
Look at the sky-

(Leap year).
Naomi Mar 6
Late at night, her skin glows against the pale blue moon.
Mid-afternoon her hair sparkles with the sunny rays as the sun sinks to sleep.
Her hair as yellow and bright as a sunflower field.
Her summer days are filled with numbing cotton candy sunsets, vibrant pink bows, cheesy romantic novels and a luminous tone that follows her shadow.

But, the other girl...
Late at night, she disappears from sight... all one can hear are her cries.
Mid-afternoon her hair is wild and frizzy as she runs from the glowing man.
She does not glow a white light...
She works all day under the sun and leaves with a tan tone and watery eyes.
She is so beautiful. She is not like all the other summer girls. She doesn't need the blinding light to be noticed.
Slavery was practiced throughout the American colonies in the 17th and 18th centuries, and African slaves helped build the new nation into an economic powerhouse through the production of lucrative crops such as tobacco and cotton.
Cné Oct 2017
The surf provides lullabies
as ocean echoes roll.
Too soon, the sunlight glitters
as the dawn turns gray to gold.

I wake and I rub my eyes
beside the sandy beach
My love beside me, languid lips
within an easy reach.

I whisper, sweet good mornings
as your dreams I brush away.
You stretch and yawn, responding to
requests to "come and play".

Lingered memories caress,
of last night's rising moon
with silver waves and ripples,
beyond the dark lagoon.

In shades of colors that mix and smudge
you take your time, no rush
My ******* tingle, at the thought
upon my skin, spreads flush.

In reverie, flutters reminisce,
your wanton body on mine.
Whispered moans in my ear, you ******,
"I'm yours", I hear on rewind.
When last night's... turns into this morning's
Kaliedoscope colors, shaped as a rectangle outline of my door-
and I can't go out and see the beauty of it. A gray room,
with a blue face, laced into rushing in another pumping day.
Provoke the guilt, wilted meaning every breathing being has.
I'll leave someday, in someway, maybe not this moon fall,
but I know I can't live, thoroughly at all-
All feedback is welcome.
em Feb 8
i am like a gray cloud
not pretty in this sky.
i disappoint and displeasure
all the passerby.
this depression
is not a "this" thing
it just
is.

its me.
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