Paint Me

YELLOW

I think I must have known he was trouble when I managed to smile without pulling on the strings of my marionette body.

A lifetime of infinite chances and coincidences, yet I still somehow managed to land two hours of my precious time with an angel. In the space of one chance encounter, I was Icarus, trading my wax wings for the soft caress of the sun.

My one moment was worth the sacrifice. With no regard for any consequences, reason or self preservation, with no care that my body might have withered away if I gave my whole self to a boy for two hours; I let the tips of my wings melt under the breath of a thousand suns.

In the whisper of time that I sat suspended above infinite universes, my frigid body was finally warm.

I dreamed of true happiness all the way back down to Earth. Even as my heart slammed against my chest from the weight of the fall, I swear, I still felt it skip a beat when I thought of what it was like to exist in eternity for a single moment.

Paint Me

GREEN

I

I think I’ve been sick for long enough now that it’s become just as much a part of me as anything else. 

Somedays, I thrive off it. I breathe it in like it’s the only thing I’ve ever known. Like I need that drug, that fix, that high. It tastes like shit and burns like hell, but I would drink enough to drown me just to feel something on one of those days.

Of course, somedays, it does drown me. Walls close in on me whilst the room spins and from somewhere in the back of my mind a cacophony of regrets and apologies begins to play. 

Shaky breaths and strangled sobs attempt fight against the oncoming tune but I am helpless. A fragile ball of a thousand broken promises rocking back and forth under whatever shelter it can find. A broken record begging for forgiveness from the bedroom walls.

I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I’m

nothing without my sickness.

It’s easier that way. To just let her carve herself into my skin. A permanent brand to soother her possessive appetite. My girl. My shell. My slave. Mine.

Hers. I am hers. 

I crawl into bed and surrender myself to her cold, skeletal embrace. Her bony hands send shivers down my spine, her sweet nothings echo like sirens, her body envelops mine; I don’t know who I am without her.

She’s toxic. The venomous bitch always knows what what’s best. Always knows how to push me deeper into my head. Always waiting for a chance to beat me to the lead role. Every night I become a supporting character in my own story. 

I need to get out of my head. I need to get out of my bed. She needs to get out of my bed. I’m sick of sharing it with her. 

But you can’t kick yourself out of your own bed. You can’t split yourself in half and pretend it’s not you screaming out the profanities. I’ve got to stop imagining that it’s not me. She is me. I am my own poison. I want to kill it.

I’m always afraid it will kill me.

I could throw myself amongst the stars, spread myself around the galaxies, lay my heart bare in front of the whole world. But I cannot tell where the different parts of me start and end.

I can’t begin to fathom where the acid stops burning holes in my lungs, where the poison starts beating through my blood or where the shadows end. 

I am afraid. 

I do not fear breathing. I do not fear facing the rest of my life sentence alone. I do not fear being given to the next plain.

Yet, I am so very afraid.

I fear that there will come a day, when the whole of me is consumed by demons so that there is no more of what I used to be. I fear that on that day, to beat the sickness, to conquer it, to kill it, would be to kill myself.

Then The Night Falls Quiet

This little girl has a beautiful smile,

that she puts on every day.

She talks about the world as a better place

and how she can make it that way.

But she is so tired of the musical,

the lovers, the leaders, the sheep.

And then the night falls quiet and there’s stars in the sky

and in the dark - she sleeps.

And the young man knows how to sing

but has never learned how to believe,

Spends his time trying to find some light

in the marks hidden by his sleeves.

Never confessed to the midnight rain

the horrors he thought he’d seen.

And then the night falls quiet and there’s stars in the sky

and when he sleeps - he dreams.

And an old man wishes it never rained

after a certain point in the night.

The droplets on the home’s new roof urge him

to cry about what’s not right.

All he wants is a little time to think

about his wife wandering in eternity.

And then the night falls quiet and there’s stars in the sky

and he sleeps, and he dreams - he’s free.

And the rest of the world watches on

in starstruck awe and disbelief.

And they all continue to dawdle on

through hope and humour and grief.

And then the night falls quiet and there’s stars in the sky

and we roll into bed and into sleep

but when we dream the world is ours

and the freedom we find is ours to keep.

The Power of Words

Some of the time I write to release emotion,

To put 'teenage angst' into a more eloquent notion,

Because I can feel when the hypothetical bottle is about to explode,

Rhyming my feelings is a good way to unload.

I've heard the stories of those who died too young,

Swallowed all their feelings and chased them down with a gun,

Maybe this'll save me from an early hearse,

That, my friend, is the power of a verse.

A lot of the time I write out of selfish need,

To soothe the wounds that too often bleed,

For poetry beats inside me like a second heartbeat,

Giving me soft reassurance in an impressive feat.

The steady rhythm - that harmonious song

Wraps me in its arms, that's where I belong.

Pulling me out of hell every single time,

That, my friend, is the power of a line.

But most of the time I write to be free,

To allow my words to break the boundaries of immortality,

So that the marks I leave are infinitely touching you,

So that you don't just read – you feel too.

And all I hope for is that what I say,

Can stick in your mind for just a day,

And then maybe you've learnt something from a mere verse.

That my friend, is the power of words.