blooms

White

White enters my eyes with a mighty bite.

White burns my eyes and overwhelms my sight.

White is painfully bright.

Yet white inspires me to create and write.

White makes me yearn for the freedom of night.

Night's not there, not quite.

White used to be the color I'd choose to dream about to take a detour.

The psychology behind it is all white lies that's for sure.

White smells sharply sterile like the illusion that there's finally a cure.

White isn't pretty or pure.

White is blank, nothing, an infinite blur.

Do the purest see white?

Does anyone even see?

How can these diagnoses be?

Why do their minds gradually flee?

Healthy life seems to have no guarantee.

If it's hereditary how can I become an escapee?

What is the key?

We need to be free.

We are born from white light and return to white bones.

That is all that seems to be concluded from the old scriptures describing the unknowns.

To the ones before us who don't love us we all seem to be attached to our phones.

They will never elevate to the new zones.

They're so numb they can't hear our fresh tones.

So numb they'll feel right about taking our money through loans.

They just want to shut us up and pummel us with stones.

We meet the ones before us who don't love us with angry groans.

Lay the motionless bodies in caves of white, from which they may tear their wings.

In their absence we put them on a pedestal for kings.

Their stories play to your heartstrings.

Voices are harmonic and their songs are symphonic.

Stories' pages turn as the illnesses become too chronic.

No matter their flaws, their love is deep and platonic.

Hearts keep giving out from being too histrionic.

They keep smoking and getting knocked out by gin and tonic.

They think their stupid behavior will keep them iconic.

I find it all to be quite ironic.