I have fallen into a pattern of
ticking and tock-ing
for those who simply miss the measurement of time.
My mouth is stained red, but my
mind is enveloped in tones of blue, no longer
filled to the brim with heat;
it is simply teetering on a line of
‘here’ and ‘there’ and
I cannot decide if that is a way to be.
My friends have named me ‘Hushed’ though
demons behind my face thrash and belt
in their cage to simply see the white
of a page; feel freedom in lines.
They are often restricted and I am
tangled in convictions, too absent to
hope anything for them.
I speak in metaphors to contain the truth that
I think in black and white; it adjusts the
difficulty of distinguishing who I am and who I am not.
Nothing is but what is not, you see.
I swear that my journals are private, however they are
left in odd places for obvious reasons.
Much of my time alone is spent carving truths into parks’ wooden
tables to leave behind words like footprints. My words are here, in me.
It is not too much to want someone to understand that
I have fallen into
A pattern of
coming and going
because I’d rather be missed, like
the sight of a lover’s blue eyes, than
ignored, like the slightly darker pieces of grass
swaying on the other side.
I do like to be alone,
only when it is controlled
otherwise I’m known
to spin words and colors into