Before,
we had the thin thread that was on the verge to snap.
That,
we were more or less; was about to use it to end our lives,
we had love.
Before,
the arguing and yelling,
we'd call it 'playful'.
Before,
when I refused to ever touch the sharp scissors, that played the paint brush to my skin.
Everything,
was loud like the busy streets of the city I would daze over,
when the sun went out and the street lights- vivid.
But not long after,
you finally cut the thin thread that barely kept us together.
After,
the rise of voices and what was said over the phone.
After,
I decided that I wanted natural red paint, produced from the body itself.
There was silence,
it was- as if you cut the power line all around the city.
Factories stopped working,
it was stark without the lights that once were-vivid
the train tracks stopped and the traffic lights no longer lit their three colours.
You cut the thread between you and I.
So, then the silence grew.
It grew and grew
and kept growing.
It, never has stopped.
It, never will stop.
It,
was as if I could still hear the silence of that night.
I cover my ears to protect my mind from the unwanted thoughts that flow-
like waves colliding with the shore.
You were the moon creating these high tides,
I couldn't control.
- the ocean to the city
YOU ARE READING
I wish that I didn't write these poems.
PoetryVarious collective of unwanted poems I have written; for people who are fond of the subjects of heartache and who are disorientated through the navigation of this world. Let me share this with you. My emotions are inconsistent and messy, please in...
