Bleach

Washed Off
Anonymous the days.
Me, the melancholic soldier,
Of the winter day.
Reminiscence of thoughts.
As oil brushes,
Dried,
Washed off by time.
An asylum.
But this is where I was born.
A home.
Dried watercolor,
Washed off.
Even I have forgotten the smell of a painting now,
It must be underneath the bed,
On the corners,
In between the books.
Outside,
on the hollows of the concrete stairs,
On the pieces of paper,
I shed myself.
A dried painting, and I cannot even smell the oil anymore…

Reviews

[robert harris jr]

very very i was falling in love with poem and beleive me i know but let say this because i love where this poem was going nevr rush your when writting tell the truth say how it even if it hurts again once have been threw it you made i seen and felt every word but it seemed like you wanted to leave the because of the pain
never rush write your an dna specialist every point counts make arthentic to T. camealion your thoughts and feelings leaves slowly so never share it fast give your self / i like to see your be arnest edit this and give to the world again / from my heart ROBERT

[a_methyste]

Thank you Robert. You are making my day with your comments.

[Twilight]

Most curious, and this intrigued me somewhat.

The "soldier" reference, made me think of you soldiering through life; and adverse conditions which it can bring. And, modern life can sometimes seem like an "asylum"; due to how it seems to be.

By forgetting the smell of a painting, and it lying under your bed; it made me think of someone losing their interest in art? Be that temporarily, or otherwise.

This is certainly a bleak and thoughtful poem. Thankyou, for sharing.

Sometimes, we need to remind ourselves of how harsh or bleak times felt; so as to better appreciate today's positive aspects.?

Fond thoughts. J

[a_methyste]

This how I have felt. Thank you for taking time and reading it.

[Twilight]

I understand. And, you concur with my comments; darling.?

[a_methyste]

Yes I do. :)