peace in painting
tranquil world building
depths over blending
peace from painting
for an evoking unveiling.
haze of rosy dusk
a quick afternoon nap
dreams about cake
a yawning drowsy cat
deeper lilac sprawling
to flood the sky with stars
sketch in colour pencil
now to finish and restart.
Dirty fingernails, same as your mind
But he can strum the guitar just fine
Every now and then he’d think about his life
Daydreaming just to pass the time…
is one of
those sad days
a ghost in
my darling, of
as you know it
nothing at all
as i pen eulogies
to my name
woe is me, my
not been kind
they never were
but i hope
love, that yours
and the colour of
lilac i painted
your lips with
a pale afterglow
a subtle adoration
love, pure love
i hope all your
dreams visit you
not only when
and may they
never fall away
like, i ponder,
all those whose
faded from familiar
from freckles and
for better days
or bitter days
they’ll be gone soon
but so will i
and so will you
and so will all
these sad days be
i only wonder
what time brings
for you and me
Now the sun is closer than it was before
Anyone who’s anyone can feel it
Saturdays are not the same as they used to be
Sadder days, why do they keep on using me?
Let’s keep it simple. Let’s dissolve the convoluted hyperboles with a dose of sedating fentanyl and simply look the problem straight in its eyes.
Not just pastel or skylight or marine or brilliant or midnight or cobalt or baby blue, no. But the kind of blue that makes any other shade of blue look lifelessly grey. The kind of blue you left me with watery gazes and sinkholes, when you left your thoughts to fester unstoppably in mine. The very kind of blue I never thought I’d hate to love.
Sometimes, it faintly tastes of the tranquil oceanic breeze, and I could rest easy by the lonely bayside as I let my wandering thoughts ponder cautiously. Tiptoes clumsily traipsing against curious hope and lukewarm sand, fallen horizons blushing a pallid sunset orange, caught smiling unaware whenever I chance upon the nuanced way you adored every delicate brushstroke on the canvas I painstakingly laid out for you; an artist cursed to draw the same portrait forever.
Sweet. Bitter. Nothing.
Sometimes, it’s destructive blizzards all at once; mental violence haphazardly spitting ammunition directly into my targeted chest, turning me into a tattered tapestry of miserable fury—barely fit to be called human. My mind wails and shrieks as it rakes its bladed nails down my spine, coming undone at the uncontrollable paranoia that the very same paintings which brought your attention to my existence would now cause you to draw loathing deep into my skin; an artist blessed to despise their own creations forever.
Tantrums. Bloody. Everything.
My convictions are constantly wavering, my tessellated identity shattering into stagnant fractals if I even so much shed a sliver of you off of my armour, and the overgrown thorns that once quietly infected my lungs sting a whole lot worse when I try to pull them out. So I lie between my gritted chemical teeth and pretend it’s for the best, but no amount of feigned reassurance will ever quell the tormented pangs writhing inside of me, wrenching badly-stitched arteries apart again and crushing my fragile bones to silver dust. Irreparable.
Useless. Helpless. Hopeless.
And still, that blue—god, that damned kind of blue—so vividly engraved behind my closed eyelids like a restless epitaph. Keeping me wide awake and screaming silently in the cramped jail cell I call my home as it softly lulls me off into perpetual sleep. Far away from the echoes of the observable universe, and everyone else, and nothing else. Your inimitable shade of blue.
The kind I hate I love.
Stay out of the light or the photograph that I gave you
You can say a prayer if you need to
Or just get in line and I’ll grieve you
Can I meet you, alone, another night and I’ll see you
Another night and I’ll be you
Some other way to continue, to hide my face…
I wanna turn your insides to white (say it ain’t so)
So it looks good on my bedroom walls (black, blonde, red)
My heart’s been bleached by the tidal waves (so wash me out)
I wonder if it had any colour at all (maybe not)
(So they say that the switchblade is better than the sense)
Well then, let’s see how you look in basketcase drag
(So they say that all this praying won’t make you a saint)
Well then, let’s see how you look when it goes bad
It’s not profound or romantic (it’s a mechanical interlude)
And I’m tired of (waiting for) all the infinite eulogies
(And they all put words in my mouth that) make me feel sick
Babe, I just wanted to sever a vein (but you made it plural)
(The incineration of another night, the gunshots rang clear
The townspeople screamed as a body fell out of a windowsill
Sirens wailed and ambulances crashed to the beat of my heart
Screaming “fucking save me!”, but it was all a nightmare thrill)
‘Cause Magdalene’s desecrated (and her scripture womb) now ain’t sacred
‘Cause all your best friends will only get together when somebody starts to die
‘Cause you can have your fucking funeral but still end up running late for it
(‘Cause you might) say grace all you want and still throw up (pure lies)
(Say it ain’t so) I wanna turn your insides inside out
(Black, blonde, red) And end up drunk on your bedroom walls
(So wash me out) My heart’s been drowned off by the tidal waves
(Maybe not) I wonder if it meant anything to you at all.
And we’ll all dance alone to the tune of your death
We’ll love again, we’ll laugh again
And it’s better off this way
And never again, and never again
They gave us two shots to the back of the head
And we’re all dead now…
don’t you go,
i’m still not done
painting your portrait
to hang in my walls
long after the house rots,
long after i’ve passed away.
they said to let you go
for you’ve already found
your bluest heaven
where you can sleep with
fleecy floral angels,
but i don’t think i could
let you go that easily.
i want to capture you,
your ethereal silhouettes,
your faded outlines,
your scars and scepticisms,
your details and blurs,
and your coalescing heart.
because i still have mine,
and it beats angrily—
refusing to let me rest
until every colour, linework,
and careful brushstroke
is immaculate and
tastes tangibly of you.
i know you wish to leave soon,
but won’t you please stay
and spare me just
one last masterpiece?
My empty head is so full of blue
Of bleeding skies and listless hues
Lonely petrichor in hidden dreams
Wish my heart wasn’t so evergreen
Hoping wasted hexes aren’t obscure
And the daylight stars are kismet pure
I blink, I wake, I sleep, I breathe, I die
With only pacific blue within my eyes
You’re efflorescent June, I’m wilting July
Perfume fragrance and perfume-scent lies
Morning coffee, morning hair, morning regret
Blue as bruises, blue menthol, blue until death
Gloom in charcoal and acrylic sighs
Rare as a black hole, losing fallen cries
Wearing cold blue like a feverish flu
Lucid repeat, my ocean angel, tidal you
My flooded head’s so full of midnight blue
Of pastel horizons coalescing xanthus hues
Raining embers until the hurricane sleeps again
Wish my empty heart wasn’t lacking aquamarine.
And when I see you
I really see you upside-down
But my brain knows better
It picks you up and turns you around
Turns you around, turns you around
If you feel discouraged
That there’s a lack of color here…
It was an easy kind of self-destruction; the one I never had to beg for.
After a few nights of staying awake and listening to cheaply-constructed songs on the static radio, I was already haunted. Copper chain links that stabbed at the fictional horizon and left unstitched scars on the exposed wind. Shy vespertine flowers that bloomed in the most coruscant spectrums, but only when no weeping eye was there to witness their exquisite grandeur and compose concerto symphonies about it. An infinite, arrogant, wakeless kind of blue that rivaled every transatlantic and pacific direction that I chased; but, unlike the oceans of this planet so drenched and cold and jaded to the bone, no one is ever able to cross it, and no one ever will.
And violet. A damnable shade, akin to roses-not-reds and forget-me-nots, that violet. A bleeding, dirty kind of violet that left filthy, undecipherable Roschach stains everywhere. Splattering the bruises of my halted tongue, shading the asphyxiation of my untouched lips, violently overtaking the rock-steady sorry secret that was divulged and diluted all too late. It painted a tragedy that only the most damaged and paranoid artists could understand, and rending shreds of the purest agony down my colliding ribs that not even the most genius maestros and starving dilettantes could begin to dissect; for it was a foreign anatomy. A different unknown. A beyond the beyond. It was brutally twisted inside my veins and gauchely discarded somewhere in between sense and sanctuary, photographed and arrested in another postcard vintage lie. I could write graphite letters at the back all I want, but I’ll never swim away from the indigo waves in front. It was our holiday memory, drowning me again and again and again.
Absolutely useless. It couldn’t aid my breathing. It couldn’t save my sleeping. It was a disease that was highly susceptible only to my atrophied words and comatosed syllogisms—the same unfortunate ones that are now leaving my chafed fingers but never my wornout mind, like you, like you, like you.
Unrelenting. Unsuspending. Unending.
All my colours were inverted. And no one can turn it back the right way.
If there even was one.
Please don’t worry, lover
It’s really bursting at the seams
For absorbing everything
The spectrum’s A to Z
This is fact, not fiction
For the first time in years…
Now you’re gone, but I’ll be okay
Your hot whisky eyes have fanned the flames
Maybe I’ll burn a little brighter tonight
Let the fire breathe me back to life…
remnant of voices
never been better
i’ll listen forever
wind’s static noise
can’t mask laughter
we can’t be sober
i’ll listen forever
a life in full colour
i’ll listen forever
‘til morning sighs
so end this never
i’ll listen forever
it’s a nervous sea
but i don’t mind
i’ll listen forever
will you hear me?
I will sing to you every day
If it will take away the pain
Oh and I’ve heard you got it, got it so bad
‘Cause I am the best you’ll never have…
His wrists were so flushed
From the stinging pink blush
Rubber smile lasting a second
Before snapping back away
Rippling palest purple shade
Watercolour lily against peach
Numb pastels the only colour
He could paint without a stitch.