The walls of my room are blue,
As are the rug and the ceiling.
My curtains, bed sheets, too
All in different defining hues;
I'm surrounded in my feelings.
Some times it's very gentle,
A periwinkle like the sky.
Other days it can be detrimental
And leaves me mentally unsettled
And navy hues flow as tears when I cry.
YOU ARE READING
Stygian. Stagnant. Solitary.
PoetryDarkness. Stillness. Loneliness. Three hells, amassed within the contents of a human skull to torture the mind. Artistically speaking, they are the kerosene that keeps the fire of poetry alive. Consciously, they're traumatically destructive.
