No matter how many times I paint these goddamned walls, their original colours still remain if you catch them in the right light,
But I'm never in the right light, because I always seem to be in the dark but this is a strange kind of darkness:
The kind that has a sickled smile and caffeine fuelled energy, but calorie free dinners because it fills up your stomach
With the thoughts that shouldn't be in your head so instead they block your oesophagus and,
Their hands rest on your tongue as to push away the kisses and hold back the cries for help.
I destroy myself creatively because I'm too unbroken for poetry but it's all I seem to know;
It's all I seem able to continue, but I'd rather that - I guess - because when I continue to paint these walls,
I'm reminded of all of the failed layers of paint from previous years, which never fucking covered the original colours
That I'm so desperate to hide but, hold on, I'm redecorating again, and I'm watching the paint dry;
And there it is, the first coat, back again,
screaming 'I'll stay', but maybe I won't ,
but why not be as stubborn as the first fucking layer?
YOU ARE READING
An Amalgamation of Words
شِعرI'm almost as bad at writing descriptions as I am at writing poems, but at least I tried. Sharing my inner turmoil, one poorly worded sentence at a time.
