Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one that can see my black, oil slicked feathers.
They are the reason I don't like getting wet, the reason I fit better in the shadows than in the direct sunlight.
I'm not colorful on the outside, though the glossy yet demure rainbow sheen of my midnight mane may say otherwise.
They say it's what's on the inside that counts; if you cut me open, I'd bleed opal.
Opal, shimmering liquid pearl, luminescent moonshine filling every crevice of my heart, every crack and corner that are not filled with emotions that threaten to overturn the barriers preventing floods over and over and yet over again.
I'd forgotten- funny isn't it?- how easily words can flow and glow from my mouth if I would only open it. But as quickly as I do, the contents that spill out are black as tar, black as my coverings, my feathers, my thoughts.
What else is there to say but that I wish the black and the rainbow would coexists?
Oil slicks and opals are both beautiful.
You can see the rainbow in each, but sometimes you have to take the time to look closer.
just word *****, I need to get into writing poetry more because frankly I miss the closure it gives. The funny thing is that I always start with a poem in mind and it ends up being something completely different because I get into that inspired mood and don't give a **** whether or not it rhymes or corresponds. I think that's pretty reminiscent of my personality.