yellow

why we (the others) suffer

read a flimsy page of precious film
to the world of oil paints and lipstick shades
the vocal chords ringing, the ink dripping
the vibrato of the kids who got trapped inside full size bodies
they pulse and flow

i'm swimming, dreaming in a globe of creation, we all can't help but convey the unspeakable through the metaphor we all hang over our shoulder like a dying bird.
we live in these bodies without escape, abuzz with light and dark, and all i can ask is why:

I.
we will turn the lights off, try to shut off the colors in our head because sometime the spectrum becomes too bright and burns right through our eyelids.
it's like a disease sometimes, having a growing conglomeration of abstractness pulsing like a tumor in between the lobes of your brain.
simple agony, attempting to cut the string- let this thing be free.

II.
so we do. we take a seat at our oak wood desks, grab a pen, and let the tumors run rampant.
the ink is like pesticide for the suffering, it gushes and evaporates, and the dew droplets left on the paper tell one story.
and we begin to understand that the blackness in our heads were delicately placed there for reasons unknown.

III.
sometimes we can't get the gears to churn like clockwork, we've run dry of ink for oil, and it feels like all hope is lost.
the dreams of neverland seem to be stuck under the boot, and everything we've ever learned is crumpled in a makeshift ball for the waste basket.
maybe we overestimated the power of our own hands.

IV.
ask yourself every night as an evening prayer:
am i worthy? am i good? am i holy?
and you know you'll never get the answer,
but you ask anyway; just in case
as an empty room echoes back with a stifled silence, you swallow the truth that no one (not even God) is going to answer the unanswerable.
so you're going to have to sit down at your oak wood desk, pick up the pen, and let the tumors run rampant all on their own.

V.
maybe, just maybe
they'll like it