i try writing poetry,
but the words seem lost in a haze
of blurred lights and muted
pandemonium
and when i find the words,
i need to pull them out of the shells
they have worn to prevent external
contact
they stare at me with disgust,
you see, my words realise what i have been
up to,
they know i could have seen things
my brain comes on blank
when I try to think of-
for you need the metre to find the words
that fit,
and you need to fit in the goddamned jigsaw
you have built, breaking apart at the cracks- piece by piece,
but then, one day the lady
with the hazardous knitting lets out
a gasp
and you realise the sounds in your head
aren’t yours anymore
you are theirs
and they understand how you have lost
the pieces to your own puzzle
(you irresponsible kid,
listen to your mother)
so they decide to leave out hints,
a breadcrumb trail which ends
at the gingerbread’s place
to realise how fantasy
is so much better than reality
only in your head
and in your head,
you see a painter staring
at the blank space
in his flesh
trying to choose between the green
and the blue
that he could use
to fill
what he threw,
there are so many different colours
and i am tired of sticking to the blacks,
playing safe,
I’ll find the red to my pink
even if it doesn’t fit
anything,
to feel a little alive,
eh?
