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Literature Text
words are like the colors of paint run dry
like summer and starlight carved in my dreams
whispers of wonder in ruby red skies
alike the sounds of my broken heart theme
my color full thoughts came out black and white
on parchment paper dipped in lostsoul ink.
found in the shape of the autumn bird's flight
lost in the middle of my cold heart blink
empty lettered moments in bright eyed stares
broken by the lyrics in a love song
i've got nothing left, but why should I care
with no more words left since it's been this long
not even giving this just one more try
when words are the colors of paint run dry
like summer and starlight carved in my dreams
whispers of wonder in ruby red skies
alike the sounds of my broken heart theme
my color full thoughts came out black and white
on parchment paper dipped in lostsoul ink.
found in the shape of the autumn bird's flight
lost in the middle of my cold heart blink
empty lettered moments in bright eyed stares
broken by the lyrics in a love song
i've got nothing left, but why should I care
with no more words left since it's been this long
not even giving this just one more try
when words are the colors of paint run dry
Literature
truths
i.
there are 2 things that not even the most
forceful of rains can cleanse me of:
-memories
-mistakes
ii.
sometimes, i feel like a caged lion.
only with a lot more impatience
and a lot less resilience.
iii.
i have yet to discover what it means to be content.
i am either too stagnant or too fluid.
no middle ground.
iv.
i have mastered the art of leaving.
it's the idea of moving on that still haunts me.
v.
i fear that the light in my eyes is so dim that it will burn out
before even i have a chance to see the world with it.
vi.
i am not as clever as i pretend to be.
vii.
someone needs to teach me that
i don't need reassurance; i
Literature
Her Muse
these words are not poetry
swimming liquid fire through ashes
of dead phoenix veins.
no, they are rough and callused
with over use, their own faithless artists
spewing black tar from their lungs
in the hopes to one day breathe again.
nothing moves her.
she would rather scribble her heart out
on physical manifestations of her own reality-
on skin and bones she worships like a temple.
"Write of me," he says, "right here."-
planting sun-stricken kisses
along the hollow of her burning throat.
"I want to be where your heart sleeps."
Literature
ME
i. I fell in love with a girl who catalogued darkness,
sat in her room with the blinds closed and wrote down
187 ways it felt
in all of the different times she couldn't see.
My name was one of them,
#143, ash velvet, and I didn't know what she meant at the time
but the only description she wrote beneath it
was good night for stuffed animals
bad night for worn pillows.
And I'm sorry I made you dream of the rivers.
ii. I fell in love with a girl who never looked in the mirror
but dressed to perfection, somehow
in her blue skirt and black socks
white tennis shoes
and a smile crooked as the bottom side of Indiana –
yeah, I
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I got the line "words are like the colors of paint run dry" and decided I would turn it into a sonnet, so here you go 
© 2009 - 2024 platinummyr
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Poetic much(: