I coloured my world today
my hands smeared in pastels
canary yellows
ripe peaches and cardinal ochres
pink from a flamingo sunrise
a passionate cerise

Splashed
an array of feisty blues
a flamboyant turquoise
a topaz tango
a twinkling periwinkle

Streaked it with
beams of gold
contoured lilac smudges
lavender tipped edges
in custard pineapple floats

Splattered emeralds, toned pistachio
fern greens with swift finger strokes.

Tempered it with
muddy crusty earthy browns
rock coloured sandy mounds
reined in royal purple
the sensual blaze of a flaming sunset
the dark indigo of a gloaming sky
agate drops a few
a silver sliver of a crescent new

I coloured my world
with my eyes
my words
my fingers, hands
my hues
....just the way I wanted to

I’m always forgotten because I’m never known.
They see me and my concept,
what they believe it is,
but they do not take the time to know me,
my insides and fillings,
my laughs and tears,
my thoughts and words.
I’m always forgotten because they never care enough to notice my light,
or my lack of one.
Superficial gifts and smiles
all at once in one Christmas night.
I’m always forgotten in their brains,
like tasks that no one wants to do,
a person no one wants to know.

Closer to new years now.
I’m always forgotten over the summer.
I exist,
lax and blurry,
because they don’t remember me if they don’t see me.
Every person creates a different image,
except no one actually knows me.
They just see.
They watch.
They imagine.
And they create.
Me,
in their brains.
But its not me anymore,
because a me doesn’t exist in anyone’s mind.
Not even mine.

Hard to breathe
Hard to see
Hard to speak
Hard for me

Cannot breathe
Cannot see
Cannot hear
Drowning deep

Don't know where
I could be
I feel fear
In the sea

I look above
Bubbles leave
I hit the ground
Here I sleep

My oxygen
Now deplete
Here I lie
Under the Sea

i dont know how to
be better than i am now
but i got to try

No one bats an eye at a ****** assault
Instead, they continue their meal at the dinner table as they pass the salt
"What were they wearing?"
"Why is everyone dreading?"
"It's not my fault they looked like a ****/*****."
"I want some more."
"It's their fault for wearing something like that."
"It's not my fault they looked attractive as they sat."
All disgusting words, said by people who don't have common sense
It's been like this since
Yet, no one bats an eye

No one bats an eye at murders
Killing all the mothers
And family members
But no one simply cares
All they do is inhale the air
Unlike the dead
Who has maggots in their head
Instead, they do nothing about it
They act like they don't care even a little bit
Police
Aren't protecting people from the beasts
Lurking in the open
They aren't in a singular pen

No one seems to care
All the women picking the bear
Because of violent and perverted "men"
Just like Benz
Who shouldn't even be considered "men"
Doing dangerous crimes like abuse, murders, SA, and more
They don't look like a pore
They look like a pimple
If I tried to make it more simple
The pimple desperately trying to make itself a pore
But they can't do anymore
They stick out like loose strands
Yet, no one bats an eye at these strands

No one bats an eye at evil individuals
They considered them "normal/average individuals"
Yet, they are dangerous

Fifty years ago, the future came,
built in concrete, tile, and bright lights,
underground station, undergirding the fame
of this city, adding to its manifold sights.

Now the future’s a place that smells of stale beer,
barely lit by futuristic lamps in disrepair,
wallpapered in graffiti, strewn with gear
of the pale homeless who’ve made this their lair.

They, like this chipped, grimy, forsaken place
are left in the dust of our dreams’ mercury pace.

Bullet or bullion:
police and politicians,
neither is better.

WE ARE EACH OTHER

I slip into your gestures
as if

they were my own
the ones I loved.

Adopt that certain tone
that could only mean

Brian and
your "Alright...Bud!"

Your voice
walks inside my head

I listen to the footsteps
of everything you say,

Here I adopt
your smile.

Use it as
you would do.

The kindness in your eyes
reflected now in mine.

See? Sometimes even I
forget your death

by becoming you
bit by bit.

You live inside me now
and we still exist

as brother
to brother.

The one grown into
the other.

Outside a new day
blossoms into being.

Walk with me as one.
My eyes will see for you.

A time that can be
never known by you.

I tell the dawn
your name.

This is
my brother.

film 7

Angels cut themselves in invisible changing rooms. Ohio covers god’s tattoos with ice. I am watching on my phone a television lose blood in front of my son’s old breathing machine. Fire isn’t everywhere.

Night-Mares
dollars for Penny
gold for Jenny
No-tell Motel upstairs.

Four poles, four people, and I have four corners.
The color in me is red with a white background.
People like my colorful side, so they like me outside.
The strife of words has a momentary fragrance.
My simplicity requires the exclusivity of life.

My first fold is rather simple,
Closing the doors to my white side
And revealing my colorful side.

My second need is mythical,
Making me smaller while enlarging my weight.

My third fold is about keeping myself.

My fourth fold presents me to the whole world with layers.

Before my fifth fold,
I must fold myself into diamond and open up.

The last fold makes me lenient.
Now, I am a boat,
Discovering myself in this ocean.

Many people are sad because he's no longer here.
Forty years ago, I watched him on Mr. Belvedere.
He played baseball and was a sportscaster as well.
Uecker became a success, he certainly did not fail.

If you're wondering if Bob was a success, the answer is yes.
It shouldn't come as a surprise to you that he was a success.
Uecker proved to the entire world that he could act.
He helped to make Mr. Belvedere a hit and that's a fact.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                         Front Toward Enemy

If
In what we may laughingly call real life
You can read these three words

                                     FRONT TOWARD ENEMY

You’re in the wrong place

sad and cold
its getting old
i keep fighting
all i do is cry
i seem happy
i seem fine
but on the inside
I'm breaking
hiding the fear
so i can drive
i just want to feel
i just want to thrive

My daddy—he once told me
don’t ever play with nuns
they’ll hit you with their rulers
it won’t be any fun

I snuck out of that prison
and now I’m on the run

Once freed from that schoolhouse
I sunbathed in the sun
I stayed out late, I went on dates
looking out for number-one

When I think of what I went through
of all the tired repressive lies
I keep running wise, in slick disguise
my purpose is renewed

Don’t ever let ‘em tell you
you can’t have any fun
If they preach that hackneyed drivel
grab some things and run
.
.
Songs for this:
Cold Heart (PNAU Remix) by Elton John & Dua Lipa
I'm Still Standing by Elton John

A little oval
The size of a been
It's green
And I'm not sure if it's taunting me
Or comforting me
But it's there
Staring

It's hard to believe
That something so small
Could change my big world

I know it will dissolve
Into many little workers
Trying to take the wheel of my brain
For my captain is evil
And they want to help me

Please do help me

I've tried everything else

Blanche fille aux cheveux roux,
Dont la robe par ses trous
Laisse voir la pauvreté
Et la beauté,

Pour moi, poète chétif,
Ton jeune corps maladif,
Plein de taches de rousseur,
A sa douceur.

Tu portes plus galamment
Qu'une reine de roman
Ses cothurnes de velours
Tes sabots lourds.

Au lieu d'un haillon trop court,
Qu'un superbe habit de cour
Traîne à plis bruyants et longs
Sur tes talons ;

En place de bas troués,
Que pour les yeux des roués
Sur ta jambe un poignard d'or
Reluise encor ;

Que des noeuds mal attachés
Dévoilent pour nos péchés
Tes deux beaux seins, radieux
Comme des yeux ;

Que pour te déshabiller
Tes bras se fassent prier
Et chassent à coups mutins
Les doigts lutins,

Perles de la plus belle eau,
Sonnets de maître Belleau
Par tes galants mis aux fers
Sans cesse offerts,

Valetaille de rimeurs
Te dédiant leurs primeurs
Et contemplant ton soulier
Sous l'escalier,

Maint page épris du hasard,
Maint seigneur et maint Ronsard
Épieraient pour le déduit
Ton frais réduit !

Tu compterais dans tes lits
Plus de baisers que de lis
Et rangerais sous tes lois
Plus d'un Valois !

- Cependant tu vas gueusant
Quelque vieux débris gisant
Au seuil de quelque Véfour
De carrefour ;

Tu vas lorgnant en dessous
Des bijoux de vingt-neuf sous
Dont je ne puis, oh ! pardon !
Te faire don.

Va donc ! sans autre ornement,
Parfum, perles, diamant,
Que ta maigre nudité,
Ô ma beauté !

"Bertha."

"Yes, babe."

"Do you fancy a bunk-up?"

"Is the Pope a Catholic?"

I fell for him, not in whispers or sighs,
But in crescendos, in rhythms, in skies
Painted with notes that danced in the air,
Each song a thread of the love we’d share.

He wasn’t just music—he was the sound,
The hum of the earth, the pulse underground.
A genre, a chord, a tune soft and true,
Would echo his soul, would carry his hue.

But now he is gone, and silence remains,
A hollow refrain, a ghost in the strains.
Yet when music plays, I’m drawn to the year,
I search for a sign he might have been near.

Did he hum this tune? Did he hear this beat?
Did it brush his soul? Was it his retreat?
The thought is a comfort, though bittersweet,
A harmony bridging where life and death meet.

For love like this does not fade away,
It lingers in songs, in chords that replay.
So I listen, I wonder, I dream him alive,
Through melodies where his spirit survives

It’s probably the way she looks up at you;

The way she,

Holds your hand
Squeezes your arm
Wants to hear your voice

I could be wrong
But
What’s love?

Silently
My soul whisper
Like a birds song
After a summer rain

Remember
Where youve been
And need but still to be

The truth is beckoning
To let go
And be

Free

The boy could run
but he couldn't walk
Had no time to think
No room to talk
Passed by more people
than he ever helped
Never knew anything
except for what he felt
But one thing good
we can say about the man
is that he's long gone now
and, here, we all stand