FreeFormPoetry
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I am someone
Who is a resident of my head
Turning the key to my door
Ignoring my upstairs neighbor looming above me,
Named dread.
My walls used to be smooth
Easy to tape my art up for display.
These ones are textured and rough and no one
Sees me anymore.
But he kept it all inside his head
Until he went to get ready for bed
Then he spat it all out in front of the mirror
Like mouthwash that was too strong
When time exploded,
Where were you?
I was in the cold depths of icy caverns with no coat
And then a hellish fire pit with no drink of water.
When you asked me if there was another way and I said no, you knew I was hopeless, but you listened to me anyway.
Untitled
Unbridled
Blank page
I can do whatever I want to
It's brand new
Crisp and clean
Ready to made a mess of
Subdued
A dryer hue
Saturation
Sucked straight through
I am
Grey
While they
All look so bright
Throat threaded up thoroughly,
Stitches stretched strictly.
Breathing breaks oaths and promises,
Whispering white lies to the empty winds.
It seems as though
I cannot succeed without a failure.
To gain flowers that I must hide
Instead of nurture within the sun,
To gain more confidence and pride
Remember the times where we used to run wild
in the streets of our small town. Where we used
to be called the misfits of the day. Remember
when we felt the thrill of the wind through our hair
The way I get up every day
With a yawn - a stretch - a scratch
Greeting the morning sun with a grimace
Reaching for the last tendrils of sleep
Sometimes, when I have an existential crisis like everyone does some time in their life, I turn to Dictionary-dot-com and search myself up.
This is what I see:
Iris P.—noun. /ˈaɪ rɪs pi/
The Old Masters paint ladies with rough horsehair brushes
and treat them with noxious turpentine.
There are big and little things that make life great. The little things are what I live for, like sunshine on a clear blue day or clean white daisies blooming in May or a dog's wagging tail.
