Short Stories And Stuff

An Attempt at Poetry

TU M'AS DIT: «MÊME SI TU M'ÉTONNES, JE SERAI DÉJÀ PARTIE»
(You told me, "Even if you surprise me, I'll already be gone")

I like to paint stars black
And invent new ways to fall.
Breaking news: the world is made of lack,
There's no one left to call.

You know, the sky's poised to attack—
When it falls on our heads, we'll all crawl.
You see, someone took your stuff and made a stack—
Now it's burning over there, flaming and all.

Snow melts and falls again;
Water turns to ice.
One moment I was all right, but then
You told me I was too nice. 

You said, "It's not like the sky asks to be fed."
"Should they be sending dreamers to the ground, instead?"
"Lies are too beautiful to stay dead."
"If the sea had a colour, it should be red."

I said, "Okay. That's fine."
So you took out a sketchbook—"May I suggest a new design?"
You forgot your coloured pencils when you drew me.
(Must be why I find your shadows so healthy).

Time moves, that's a shame.
Too bad I come, while you came.
Too bad blue turned to night
And we found new ways to fight.

Mouths spout all sorts of venomous things
And my mouth was always wet.
You used to scream a lot of nothings
(You'd scream louder once I got upset).

So I took your sketchbook, suggested a new design—
One where your eyes matched mine.
You said, "Not all right. Not fine."
You erased every line.

Right then, the world seemed—I used the ground for a bed—
To have a little crack.
It's like all the words you said
Struck me, right where I wanted to pack
Your smile (tucked against my chest).

We all know the rest.

I like to paint the sky black
And invent new ways to fall.
I learned the world is made of lack.
I learned there's no one left to call.

Poetry is not my cup of tea, honestly, but who am I to argue when a story comes to me in verse?