"uncolored" poems
Your uncolored hair
—my love—
is the indefinitely long
silver lining
of my cloudy heart
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
There's a story untold,
and that is, my dad has a heart of gold.
I promise you, I'll take care of you when you grow old.
Like how you took care of me, when I'm three years old.
He holds hammer, he likes gun,
and he will do anything for his loved one.
I'm so happy,
cause to have you as my dad?
I'm very lucky.
Peugeot, Porsche, Lexus, Ford.
You deserve more, more than adored.
With you, my life will be explored,
Without you, it will be uncolored.
"The greatest gift I ever had, came from God, and I call him dad."
I love you Daddy,
You never let me feel unhappy,
because you always do your duty,
and that is making me feel "Life is easy."
Dad, you're my superhero.
You know how to keep me out of sorrow.
With you, there's a beautiful tomorrow.
And with you, I glow.
I love you Daddy.....
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 10:16 AM UTC
Reality is simpler than it seems,
But it asks from you the clearest lens
Commonly what is seen, a Shadow:
Uncolored
Nebulous
Restrained
Empty
Achromatic
Larger
than you
in a sunny day of true september,
an external light however
Do not dress yourself by your shadow
Feel your body,
Feel the fabric,
Put it on
Take it off
and let your truly self decide between the blue scarf or the red hat.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
“The Weight of the Untold” (Pradip)
<•>
6:55am: Jan 2 nine twenty twenty five
(read the comments first)
enveloped by the early mix
of morning’s hangover of dark
blue gray, window glints of a
sun playing peekaboo over the
yet there (!) Manhattan skyline,
the utter “ness” of the stilled,
unwritten, unstirred, uncolored
dim of medium shadowy light,
the quietude is an actual thing,
a warming coverlet of cozy peace
am I not forcibly compelled to
write of the weight of white spaces,
Pradip pokes my curious anxiety,
as I question my own words, that
he tosses back to me, so so oft
he ****** the cells of my fingertips
to peek, to bleed, then peck letters
from within, to comprehend my
museum artifacts of words,
the weight of their panoply
of mystery
How, how can the white weight of
our seemingly empty spaces tween
words, carry this burden on its,
bony shoulders, can’t we just let them
be, like the breaths exhaled, the
disappearing exhaust of being human,
is it necessary to carry knowing knowledge,
of what needs no body, isn’t the inexplicable
better left unimagined, there be so much tolling troubles, let them be left masked, they’ll appear as embodied black letters, of-when, their discord is accorded their moment of due…no more need to succumb prematurely
to this onerous lighter than air pressurized crushing atmosphere of reused oxygen
did I awake just to prove my existence, to offer up this combination of vocabulary of wondering, one more explication of the unknowns that are visible to the naked eyes, big, hard, factuals better left alone…and suddenly the morning light has arrived,
dear god,it will be a sun-filled sky,
and that weight, is modestly eased,
never fully erased, but you know,
I know, most of its occupants
even those
who won’t show their faces
And perhaps they should remain
hidden in the white spaces
between the letters and the words,
u. n. t. o. l. d.
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 8:07 AM UTC
~a unconscious commissioned poem~
<>
La Lumière est une Dame d'honneur
advantage Frenchies,
everything sounds
better in their language,
we readily concede
we make do
with those tongues
whose fluidity
clothes & coats,
those, we are
best at
confessing in
first light this morning
was emasculated, in thickened
first fog, eerie, discomforting,
but yet, mine alone to utilize,
and make discomfiture into
a poem of coffee and cream,
stirring within, colored dreams
Lady Light finally arrives,
descending on a staircase
from heaven, radiating all
with patience, the animals
all, proclaiming in a thousand
tongues, their thanks, their
love, for everything breathing
understand best she is the source
of creation, reanimation, and a
sharing, unsparing, birth mother
to animate and inanimate, and
the death father to all we & us,
guide to our ultimate end
the waiting is most interesting,
for indeed, there is honor within,
as I compose, the sunrises to the
precise angle to bar my vision,
power to blind and enlighten,
how can this be, but it is so,
my bones warmed, suggest I
do not complain, accepting with
no exception for this is the power
source to us all, and humility is
the key to acceptance & understanding
is this poem, is this the missive,
me~my, intended, to write,
know not,
for the words leech from my skin,
in format uncolored, uncontrolled
by mine minuscule impoverished
compost of senses, morals and my
compote of cells that are products
of a thousand prior generations
morphed into a mess of me,
as of yet, purpose hidden,
undisclosed, perhaps my
reasoning is unseasoned,
my presumption of purpose,
is just a fool’s ridiculousness
Lady Light smiles kindly on my
rambunctious ilreasoning,
for I just one of billions come,
gone, and rebirthed in chains
of endless possibilities, two
words permanently paired,
conjoined, and though the
light has now risen to heights
to totally absolve my sight,
can no longer track what
is being written, accepting my
temporally blindness with grace,
even with solace, and-bid you
adieu, adieu, (bye~bye)
so musically,
until relief will
honor me with its presents…
and I can contemplate my
foolishness once more…
and the letting…
of the
*Lady’s light
of
honor illuminating
(even me)*
<>
commissioned by Pradip
7:35 am
in the sunroom where
the intersection of all light
illuminates all kinds
<>
music:
To Try for the Sun, Song by Donovan
Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In by Fifth Dimesion
Aug 5, 2024
Aug 5, 2024 at 7:52 AM UTC
Vague
uncolored
with no home
I'm okay with being alone
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Resting in an icicle hammock
Between the only two trees on a tundra of thick tears
The world remain an uncolored book
Neutral sheets of parchment paper, it usually looks
Yet, visible remains the vermillion that dribbles from my dry nose
The only shade around, which resembles petals of rose
Tissues soak up ruby rain that drips and drips
Streams of scarlet sorrows and crestfallen crimson collect as they cascade in the crevice of lust lips
The warmth of it all still cannot melt the frozen bars of this cell
But I must enjoy the only tint that reveals itself
Even if it's lava tone resembles the terrain of desolate Mars or the sinful flames of hell
Soon these cherry rivers will make way for a new pigment
A hue I will soon be wrapped in
When too much of this spills, and strings of a flowing red licorice yield to simple black
~~~~~~~~~~~
And in a faint yelp, he knew there was no turning back
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 7:17 PM UTC
As freedom fades
to twilight dim
and darkness filters in
Hopes fall
Like withered leaves
On droughted lands
Of deep despair
But we ourselves
Are here
Brought,
Not blown
By fate and resolve
To stand before the storm
uncolored by fear
unshaken by threat
We Stand
For freedom
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
Two lines converged but
Before our strides lined up as we entered
I had made up my mind
Before our entrance
And he had made up his mind too
Though in this matter
He had no right
Were I a selfish woman
Or a woman at all
It would not have mattered how little unselfish kindness he was made of
For I would not have given way to his want
I would have known the value of the secret garden I possessed within
Of no value to anyone but myself
But of value to me like a splash of paint to a yet uncolored canvass
However I was not a woman
I was without firm identity
I was, most importantly, selfless.
And when a selfish wish
Is paired with a selfless heart
A black hole is formed
Which rips the self of one
Invisibly away.
And so when he asked
Though he had no right
I gave over my self
Which is to say autonomy
To the black hole
And as a woman now, I am incomplete
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
Underneath a loathing sky
Angry at me
Destroy me with your wind
And hail on my brain
Puncture my thoughts
To let my seeds burst through
The soil of my nullified skull
Cocked back eye
Filled blank pupils
Uncolored moon irises
The beauty of intelligence
Trumps the beauty of
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
I was the prism through which your world reflected
creating new light and colors against the swaying surface of your perceptions
you were the prism through which my world reflected
creating new life uncolored by my pained and tilted past recollections
lingering, longing, lightly listed measures that build these porous excess thoughts
from this large dose of time I've swallowed with still so little progress
a placebo in place of real growth my space refuses to process
time, space, space, time.
Everything.
Someone is in pain again
and it's someone i can save
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
I wish
I held a secret
affections unuttered as to
avoid the coming clutter
of our friendship
coloring pages uncolored
now, i love colors, don't get me wrong
but when i mix the hues
and they come out differently than i expect
when i aim for purple and insteead get blue
its unnerving, loss of control,
thoughts of being undeserving because i did something wrong
the entire nature of our friendship has been altered - now, i am afraid
before. . .i could hide. everything could be fine.
so long as i shut my eyes and kept mt teeth clenched tight.
i wish i hadnt told you how i felt last night. . .
especially since i wish i knew how to express my self rightly
i cant put words to these affections quite so well
i love you, but not in the way that i might love someone else
that i would feel these things for. . . i don't think i like you like that
i think my jealousy is wrapped up in my own pride
i think my affections are perfectly fine.
i dont want you to have the idea
that im falling madly in love with you
and that you have to at all change the way we are
that. . .would be the tragedy i am afraid of.
even the slightest altering of the innocent
simple, beautiful, unexplained nature of our friendship
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
*I have a question for you
Which mind would you care to view?
One that is cautious and considered
Or one unafraid of how things are delivered?
I can tell you of loves obsessions
I can tell you of pains debilitations
But do you not wish to be disturbed?
May I gain audience however undeserved?
You may judge me to be unstable
But I bring an imagination that is able
To explore the depths of human emotion
While maintaining a focus that is unbroken
By life or even the thought of pain
Though I scour the abyss time and time again
Fear not for what I say
Even though with words I do not play
It is for each of us to decide
If we can enter the tunnel and ride
With one another in the chamber of our fears
And wipe away each other's tears
Revealing to one another our true selves
Listening intently as another soul tells
The tale of their woe and condition
Not as a sign of mental destruction
But as a hand reaching for you
Giving you the courage to start anew
Because we do not fear the dark possibilities
They will not destroy our tranquilities
Even though we acknowledge the obvious
That we tire of the normalcy latching onto us
And wish to explore the outer reaches of existence
And then come home wearing the cloak of deliverance
So I revisit my question to you
Can you take it or shall I shrink from view?
For we are poets and our task is obvious
Tell the tale and let others wonder about us
I can do it and remain a sane person uncolored by blue
I can do it... I wonder if you can do it too*
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC
One day I will wake up
to a clear sky and no lies
breathing the air my grandfathers breathed
singing the songs my ancestors sang
speaking the language of the soil and trees
matching the movement of the great butanding*
proudly proclaiming the land from which I came
not fearing the taunts of the uncolored race
standing as one people
one tribe
one blood
I yearn for this day.
The day that
I wake up
in my Philippines.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
When the tale was started to say
By unconscious birds,
All colors faded away
Except uncolored gray
And white and black.
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 8:54 AM UTC
You wore your tattoos
Just like your heart
On your sleeves of wonderful art
Each tells a story, a reason
Each admired and seen
But it was your heart
That wanted to be seen, heard
It was your heart that had the reasons
Of why you were art itself
Your skin adored
But it was the heart that yearned
A canvas for black ink, worn proudly
An uncolored heart, worn openly
You loved the pain of the needle
But you feared the pain of your vessel
Despite it all
You wore your heart on your sleeve
Aching to be filled, colored
To tell its story, its love
Your most beautiful tattoo
Is the empty outline
Of where your love should be
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 11:00 AM UTC
The voices didn't stop as I expected and i tried to forget about yestrday or the day before but I couldn't.
I will not forget tomorow and I will remember today forever.
I wasn't all alone in the room i was surrounded by a lot of shadows and soft voices.
Every feeling that was touching the empty space was fading in the corners of the room and the uncolored walls seemed like a beautiful painting without a story fulfilled with unspoken thoughts and unknown desires
Me, myself and the forgotten presence of the forgotten dreams.
I feel empty feelings guided by guilt and fading memories.
I'm everywhere and and I'm nobody.
You belong to the world and i belong to the silence.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 2:47 PM UTC
And I have seen paradise before
It was a heaven of ideological
proportions
located
on the junction
of childhood and interstates
of man and youth, with marble floors
and distant speakers echoing drops off of
cell phone booths
and older people
selling things for us to buy
to find ourselves happy in the moment
deep cascading waterfalls
Is this heaven?
When a child it's all you see
the white and pedicured purity
of a waxed granite floor,
the impersonal monotony
feeling a soul in a world unknown
the closest thing to dreaming
Old T.Vs selling like hotcakes
buy it while it's new!
Gameboy games, pokemon on the tele
silent in the face of some strange musician
playing unworded tunes you'll recognize later
their focus-grouped chords left somewhere in your mind
for you to hum when bored
Everything was perfect, then?
was it?
Those same malls don't sparkle
no more
maybe it's just the grime of life
blocking the mirrored measure of my childhood soul
lost amidst the echoes
the sweet music of truth
bouncing off of the uncolored walls
a send-off of my youth
Maybe when we go back, one day
the walls won't be quite so grey
they'll be power-washed with light,
shine better than ever before,
nothing to buy but our happiness
somewhere in those hallowed halls
searching those windows into other lives
hoping to find the key to our soul
to leave this silly Sphere and
Roebuck
our boat back out the sliding door
-windows
back out into the real world,
no longer dreaming.
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
Red blood drops
The tears of the body
Clear uncolored tears are the tears of
The soul
Blood red leaves
Falling from the trees
Are the tears of the trees
Nature
And of the
Suicide victims
Them leaves have blood
Soaked into them
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 5:52 PM UTC
We got a sinkhole in our kitchen,
all the tiles shaken and wallpaper peeling.
Could be where we've been stuffing our laundry,
or just ran out of caulk to fill the cracks.
Either way, we paid it no mind,
and it grew from the fridge to the door,
from the toilet across the floor.
The pipes jutting out of the dirt and the drywall,
and drop ceiling shredded around.
Through the hole we feel heat rising,
and hear the squawking from the basement.
The crows are dancing around the clutter,
trying not go up in flames,
but without the children escaping.
They've felt the furnace overheating,
refilling gas with every rising flame.
Claws would burn on the steaming valve,
so they just endure the roasting.
Until the furnace finally blows it smoke,
bursting out the house-grown pressure,
the crows only feel frost or the burn.
There's no gray now, just black and white.
Up from the sink hole grows a giant sunflower.
Its rotting face uncolored through the cel shade.
We're all entangled in the vines until it's chopped down.
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 11:09 AM UTC
If I live to prove that I am not who they want me to be, then I am not living as I could be; I do not want to live as a revolutionary in a constant state of defiance unless it is for a greater good, neither do I wish to exploit their weakness for my own gain; I do not want to live as a reactionary but instead as a vision of what I could be; for though they too are a part of this world and it is this world in which my body exists it is my mind instead that lives apart, uncolored by bitterness or the need to prove anything to anyone; I know my worth and I choose to live as a free spirit that only considers the possibilities of itself and to fly like a bird upon the wind instead of blowing with it like the dust from which we came.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 9:29 AM UTC