Melachroic Dawn

just an ode to a few of the reasons I write.

petals and colors of broken glass have always been synonymous to me

vibrancy of shimmers as opaque hits jagged corners

there's a pen in my hand for my writers tonight

and every breathe reflects another form of self we have left

on pages, pastels, cork boards, tables and stages

we aren't afraid to core out until our minds are hollow for the eve

refill them with analytical misinformations and over-thinking

and each time someone around us bleeds

 we paint the world in whatever shades justify the pain

that just may not be the life we wanted

but a life we died in before

so hard to understand

but I never asked for that sort of interpretation

you just feel the need to watch this tape

out pours the source of elemental masturbations

make sense of the sugar cane's nectar before you ever make sense of me

transform things that once seemed of importance into irrelevant imperfections

beautiful but tragically benign

finding the parts that I despise in dark through the eyes

of addicts, the destitute, transients constantly neglecting

physically reflecting another time when my spent was left

on corners, in bars, in abandoned hotel rooms and tablets on old wooden desks

scribbling in fear what I would otherwise yell to  a crowd that doesn't truly accept

do I expect a difference simply because our lives may intertwine

for an hour, a minute, a day, some sparse seconds

Astounded....next to caves resounding emotional maturation's turbulence

plucking out wings of old

matted to the death

throwing them in the sand

faulty excuses provide pestilence when there is no wind forcing restraint, pretending to withstand

soapbox with no one around

there is no change

so what writer holds quills with no ink

what writer doesn't develop depth without every emotion on their sleeve

I sit here in empty rooms

full of objects that don't change the tide

I'm a writer in heart

words streaming over the crevices that bend to change me

into this better version of I in two.

 I was this writer from the start...

words streaming over the tales I have spun to create a better version of this world

or am I merely just scribbling onto these pages so I can create a better version of you.