The best way words can describe them is scary,
Illogical
uncomfortable.
If I were to play them it would be the sound of piano keys
smashed down at random in a cacophony
that quivers up your spine.
If I could paint I would show you.
I would begin with a Byzantium purple
for the malevolence that confines me to my room,
followed by a chartreuse green for lucidity,
overlaid with taupe grey for the mist
that conceals all possibility of comprehension.
Flecks of maroon for sparks of violence,
unexpected and potent splashes of pain
that manifest as the need to cause damage,
taste blood.
A circle of Prussian blue for the all-consuming void
that makes its home in my heart,
insatiable and never fulfilled,
always hungry for the impossible and unattainable.
A square of cadmium yellow for all that I won’t achieve,
unaccomplished dreams collecting dust in the back of my mind
where they will decay until they become part of new dreams
and therefore complete the cycle.
White is all emotion too raw,
too new,
to elusive to be categorised, or understood.
Emotions that flit around my head
like humming birds so fast that I only get a glimpse of them,
a silhouette in need of perspective, colour and character.
Finally black swirls to portray dark truths,
things I am unwilling to acknowledge or understand.
Truths that I daren’t unravel
because to stare upon their raw form is to stare upon my end.
Not my death but the death of everything I am,
and anything I will become and so I lock these monsters away
in my closet away from my unconscious eye.
These strokes would be my creation,
born out of these fluctuations in my stability,
and I embrace it, my child, my uncomfortable masterpiece.
YOU ARE READING
A Little Book of Big Ideas
PoetryI've decided to put together a little anthology of all little fragments I have written. The content may vary from mini sagas and poetry to short stories. This is essentially a place to share what I love doing rather then forgetting about it in vario...
