Oli Nejad Jan 2013
The Grey

On slow-light morns
I meet the grey,
An absent sky,
It’s light, afraid.
It heralds the bleak
The tired, mundane,
Most loathsome, most
Despairing of days.

And yet this day, though bleak,
Though vision frayed
And blue sky strangled
By the 'gulfing grey,
After a shower and an eye-shut shave
The bleakest day,
Is realised.

I am awake.
Joyce Jan 2016
Grey Sunday afternoon.
Rain is fallen glistering gloom.
Inside it's warm and cozy.
Time for writing and relaxing.
Watch a movie and some texting.
Even when this day is grey.
Smile and have lovely Sunday.
I miss you,
having never met you
still warmer near you
across the ocean.

it rains grey
elephants and mice
in shades of
darken room
and falling curtains.

it rains in shadows
of your walk
from sunny side  
to rainy block.

A. J. Rain
Hummingbird Mar 2017
I can't sleep without you.
My dreams are filled with pain.
I remember too much of what I've seen and felt,
And in the morning all I remember is pain and fear.

On bad days,
I can't stand to see
You giving more of your attention
To someone else.

And even though I know it's a fallacy
Created by my mind's illnesses,
My brain immediately jumps to
It's because they're prettier than you.
It's because she's more confident.
It's because you're not making the same kind of progress as she would be.

And on good days, and then out of spite on bad days,
I want to tell you, softly,
"Please stop trying to fix me.
I'm not broken."


But the sad truth is,
I am.
But you still can't fix me.
I don't want you to.
That's my job.

I used to think I was a bad person.
Because I am jealous.
And I am insecure,
And spiteful
And snarky
And cold.

But I am not bad.
Yes, I am jealous.
I am insecure.
I am spiteful.
I am sarcastic.
And I am withdrawn.

But I'm also warm to those you need it,
And I have compassion that goes on for days.
I'm good at holding my tongue,
And I would never actually hurt someone,
Unless it was somehow to protect them.

There's not much to like about me.
But I've found some of it.

But after all these revelations and epiphanies,

I still can't sleep
Without you.
Grey,
A mix of black and white,
When light and dark combine but neither wins.

Grey,
An uncertain compromise,
Not best for either side but close enough.

Grey,
Never beautiful,
Duller than all others.

Grey,
A gloomy sky,
Bringing loving water, yet hated.

Grey,
Dead,
Bringing only misery, always.

Grey,
The colour of my heart,
Until I met you.
I hope you're doing fine
I hope you're doing well
I crave you all the time
but I try not to dwell.

I'm not in love with you
And you're not the one for me
But I hope you crave me too
So the thoughts feel less lonely.
Marie-Chantal May 2015
Through the rain stained glass,
With a sickly purple hue,
I can see early marsh orchid,
And it makes me think of you.

The gardener's son
Is looking at it too,
His sickly grey suit
Makes me think of you.

I was not born a bog child,
I was only passing through,
The Irish Lady's Tresses
Made me think of you.
Beware, beware keep your garden fair,
Let no man steal your thyme
Rachael Judd Feb 2015
People think the world is only made black and white
But if you blur your eyes
The only color you start to see,
Grey
The color they fail to believe
Its not one or the other, its the colors in between
O stony grey soil of Monaghan

The laugh from my love you thieved;

You took the gay child of my passion

And gave me your clod-conceived.



You clogged the feet of my boyhood

And I believed that my stumble

Had the poise and stride of Apollo

And his voice my thick tongued mumble.



You told me the plough was immortal!

O green-life conquering plough!

The mandril stained, your coulter blunted

In the smooth lea-field of my brow.



You sang on steaming dunghills

A song of cowards' brood,

You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,

You fed me on swinish food



You flung a ditch on my vision

Of beauty, love and truth.

O stony grey soil of Monaghan

You burgled my bank of youth!



Lost the long hours of pleasure

All the women that love young men.

O can I stilll stroke the monster's back

Or write with unpoisoned pen.



His name in these lonely verses

Or mention the dark fields where

The first gay flight of my lyric

Got caught in a peasant's prayer.



Mullahinsa, Drummeril, Black Shanco-

Wherever I turn I see

In the stony grey soil of Monaghan

Dead loves that were born for me.
Styles May 2014
Saturday afternoon:  She came over for the audition. She was wearing a black leather mini, black blouse, black fish net stockings and black high heels. She was hot. So was I...She told me to get on my knees and look under her shirt.  Her perfectly shaved pussy greeted me, followed by her flat stomach and bra-less breast. I couldn't resist -  I reached up, grabbed her, and throw her on the couch. I wanted to fuck her right there but, she stopped me. She said that she wanted to touch it first. That, she loved touching her pussy after it's shaved- the friction of flesh rubbing against flesh, the sensation, made her cum harder. She said she wanted me to shave her the next time - so I can watch her cum, the help her wash everything off.  She says a lot of things... After all, its only an audition
Puff Jan 2015
The steam smokes through the air obscuring my vision.

My skin is a faded blue/grey blanket holding together my dried-out bones.
I yearn that the color is of candle light and soapy water, not the omen of my last breaths.

I draw the old grey men on crumpled nude paper, trying to breathe life into their paper cut mouths.
The last couple of days I haven't been able to conger up enough words to compose a poem.
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