The Colors Of Trying.
First I saw the color of anger,
painted deftly from thick and
calloused fingers, I saw it
rise from his neck, up to his
lips, words never meant to be
uttered rattled up the ghosts
within our skin, just as forgotten
screams, those of monsters ripping
Then I saw the color of sadness,
painted tiredly with strokes
one too far away from the other-
never knowing they were supposed to
be one- I saw it slip from her eyes
and fall on her cheeks, painting war
on once hopeful skin, giving mirrors
on many nights without sleep, her
strength saved for smaller bones.
I ran far away as I saw the craving
of more, longing inking black on
the subtly rotten walls. Peeling back
what once was and never got to see
the light, they sang softly after me
of not blaming or hurting with intent,
pouring stains of their failure to cover
up the marks of our chaos, unknowingly
dooming some endings and many beginnings.
Many times realization came in the shade
of empty dreams, strongly lined with
bruised hands and unsteady limbs. Blurred out
and left only with negative space, my tinted
fingertips caught a whisper, figured out
one more: 'not enough' and a smile craving
dead lines on the surface, it told me evil can
be done with laughter, taunt and break those
always part of the lost and never found.
Predictable black and gray came from
their cervical nerves, one, eight, strings
followed down lies, connected the dots as
warmth madly lost sense among the light,
only night brought up the tense shapes of bones
breaking the skin, young eyes looked straight
ahead. A hollowed out voice carried a horrible
sound: hope clinging to a barely there story of
love. Oh, but one can have only so much conviction.
The insipid color that dripped from their
lips played with what was left of the fire,
and while they fought instead of talk, anger had the
ugly habit of stripping them bare of the pretense.
They reached desperately for something long lost,
those years that had gleamed always far away
from the starting line, but ended always empty
handed, sore losers of time. I wondered how long
would the fight last, long after the flames had died.
One too many violent turns tainted our
chests in red, they made real those cruel
parts of me, and holding onto an excuse
growled through clenched teeth I talked
of love being like this, that if its existence
was true, its ugliness would end with each and
every one of us one day. I colored us in
decay, and never once saw anything else but
reasons to wipe everybody's smile off their face.
Shaky frames pulled taut over our skin kept
us frigthened of ourselves, we moved slowly
against the blue, numbing who we were and
rehearsing who we'd never be. Words of change
salted the wounds that never closed, they made us
dance with pursed lips and wary eyes,trying to
convince us of the good, the bad, and the so many
things we would find. It appeared close to
something, just before it bit skin from bone.
The bridges that rose from shadowed roots
and darkened stances told us that
envisioning had a price we could not pay,
and still opportunities were cruelly handed,
for we soon found they had been doomed from
the start. We learned very little of big
mistakes, surrounded ourselves with cursed
lips and prayed - for time, for mercy,
for anything that would change that ending.
Encased, I saw them through a violet tinted
glass, little shards pricked my skin and
dripped crimson down my arms, I thought it
worth it, pain and love were supposed to be
bright, to be felt while they lasted, to be
violent and obscure, frame sure to endure through
the unending storms, but child had we been
fooled, delusions grew like roots inside our
minds and imagery stole what we could truly see.
I couldn't mind the whispers, I already knew
how many lies were laced tightly through my
fingers, those strands of fate and mistakes
always trapped me, held me back, and you knew, you
stared and ignored my stumbling. All the childhood
skin ripped from my back was forgotten amongst so
many things, not my blood nor my tears were enough
to grand me a pause, some time. I fell through the
glass far too soon, colorless, bitter and unwelcome.
We've been trying, but someday is too far
away, tomorrow bites at our heels and we
still don't know what to do with this lifeless
land, we crave what we don't have and climb
mountains to survive. With hands tied against
our backs, breaths strangled out through tired lips,
we move knowing fire lies under our skin.
Imaginary people hold onto our hands just to
let go - again, again, again.