Here I write
Of the possibilities which never happened
Sparks that didn't burn up
And embers that died down
Here I sat
Thinking I was unlovable
Making poems about people
But never written poems about
Amidst of the confusion
You came along and did something
I've always thought was undoable
From years of deprivation
Even as I lay here I wonder
Whether it was a lie or an error
You saw beauty in the spectrum
And took the leap of faith
When no one else dared
But my fences were guarded
My mountains were too steep
You tried climbing and got lost in the deep
So now we lurk
In awkward silences and stolen glances
On either side of the ice
Left with unsaid and unheard sentences
Better off passed undisclosed
It could've been great
It could've been us
I could've given you the key
And you could've opened the door
But's crowed the letter I wanted to give you
And scrap paper filled the bin with the brim
So here I write
My apologies for you
For the nights I ran across your mind
And the moments you ached to hear my voice
Met with the screaming silence I wanted someone else to hear
My apologies for myself
For blowing out the candle before it could burn
And for snapping your fantasies in half
I thought people were cruel for slaughtering my dreams
Here now I stand over the place where I buried the word “us”
Before it was even true.
YOU ARE READING
Black isn't a Color ➵ poems
Poetry❝ Black isn't a Color, rather, the inability of light to reflect off. ❞ A collection of poems from the confused soul of an antisocial adolescent, who doesn't know where they belong, and where they don't.
