Hello, I’ve returned!
I wrote some free verse poems today, and of course the automatically will go here. 🙂 I don’t really have much to say about them, but they are highly speculative. (In my opinion at least.) Feel free to assign whatever meaning to them that you want to–that’s kind of what they’re for.
And without further ado (that’s a fun word, don’t you think?) here are the poems! 🙂
There isn’t enough time left
For me to make any sense
With the words I must say,
For worlds end in both Whispers
I can’t make sense of
My banging heart’s whisper,
But regardless I’ll try to translate.
To put it simply—
Oh, for God’s sake, stop your tears.
I’m trying to tell you something important.
To put it simply,
I Smeared my Handprint on the White Wall
If your world lacks color,
There isn’t much you can do,
Other than paint it yourself.
But what happens if I
Run out of paint?
Or never had any to begin with?
Like water into wine
And lemons into lemonade—
You must find it—make it—yourself.
But what happens if my hands,
Smeared with colors, touch something
That wasn’t mine to paint?
The world is your canvas, that much is true,
But whoever said that
You were the only one with paint?
But what happens if all the colors mix?
And everything turns murky and grey?
The color is gone and we’re back to square one.
Everything needs a fresh coat of paint every once in a while.
Child, you worry so much about doing it wrong
That you never once touched your brush.
Art. (The Risks Don’t Matter if you tell yourself they Never Existed in the First Place)
The artist’s intent is often mistaken
For something that had never been considered in their minds,
But that had never stopped their racing minds
Or quieted their pounding hearts.
They still pick up pens and chisels, brushes and clay.
And they keep on working,
Even after the audience’s clamor of praise grows silent.
The true artist works for their own benefit,
Without a second thought to another’s input.
They didn’t agree to
Bleed it all out
That’s far too cold
Though they were
Taken and colored
For someone else’s
They kept on fighting
To return to how
They once were.
The water turned
Pink, then blue,
But they were
White as snow.
Read this Haiku Sarcastically
You fit your life in a box.
Now what will you do?
Moths to a Flame
Little flying bugs.
All brown in color.
With eyes on their backs.
A definition of drab.
Yet they still manage to find
The brightest thing
In the darkest hours of night.
Thank you for reading! You’re lovely.
Have a nice day! Until next time. ❤