I fear I miss too much.
That I speak too frequent
yet never say enough.
That my rambling never
amounts to any...
I seem to have lost myself and all interest I seemed to have carried.
Leaving me a plain white canvas which people seem to whisk past in a blur of halcyon beauty. As I am hung on the wall I can do nothing but watch as the people around me fall in love, and move along towards the sun. Like Noah’s Ark. Two by two.
And I reach and reel, pulling at every silver thread entwined in the hearts of everyone I can, but I retreat unable to feel what the world seems to have.
I want the colour of life. The shades and light. Shadows and purity of every sight in which I can submerge and lie. I want blues and pinks and silvers and golds. The simplicity of Jo Baer with the depth of Paul Cézanne, the faces and regality. Colour my heart. Colour my mind. Colour every aspect of my life.
I want to go into a shop and see perched on the shelf, a shot for every feel. 6 to a pack for a frivolous life… a shot for every ordeal.
A shot to make me beautiful. A shot to make me sweet. A shot to make them love me and sweep me off my feet. A shot to instill intrigue and a shot for a knowledgeable mind. A shot to destroy my memory and everything I can find.
Each shot will fill my canvas with a rainbow wafture of whirls, until at last I’m a masterpiece paralleled with diamonds and pearls. And everyone will stop. They’ll stare. At the beauty that they’ve missed.
For once I was a blank canvas, my heart an abyss.
I wonder what you’ve seen.
The ever pointless circle admist finding a point has been given a face... albeit a not very good one (damn my mediocre paint skills) so I sort of prefer the faceless circle but still I thought I would post it and see which you all like better c:
I want to be the colours in the kaleidoscope of your mind.
Infatuating, liberating, the memories and the sound.
For in our quiet secrecy who knows what we will find
I fear I miss too much.
If love is poison. Fill my veins. Inflame the lust; shoot up, retain. Desultory I am, say “follow my lead”, Flicking the needle, pulsating with need my Crimson lightning, slapp...
*Firstly I would like to apologise in advance for the fact I'm Irish and you might not be able to understand what I say, so I've written it out below and also for the not so stunning quality of my recording equipment ie my 4 year old laptop microphone and audacity*
I wrote our story. I gave it a title which meant nothing. Called it; ‘the seven days of you’ and mused pages and pages over the brevity of lust Thought for hours upon end of how hallow ones touch can be. Stared in a mirror to see what you had seen. To feel. what you forgot. I gave it a name, in hope it had meant something. But failed to remember what it’s called. A simple call you shouted high. You screamed it loud. How little I meant, and would mean. This is not a tale meant for books and tv and screens of beautiful girls, the lucky few. The lucky few. In your memory, a picture I drew, painted perfectly, positioned by my bed. Hung on my wall. Canonized in the light of dawn, shining through closed curtains that shield the room with a heavenly glow. So I can remember. When I’m supposed to forget. The story, that lasted pages and pages and books and shelves of you. That became you. The only memory of you that was mine alone. And On each skimmed page, with so many lines reads the title of this pantomime, of a girl who didn’t know and a boy who didn’t have the time, I called it ‘The Seven Days of You eternally engraved in my mind’
(Unfortunately this doesn't fit in with any of the themes hitrecord has going on right now. But I did this. One night at ridiculous o clock, in drunken o state I wrote a poem called 'the seven days of you' which unsurprisingly was quite dreadful and was unfortunately posted on the internet. I grew to like it though, it told a story of something I had wanted to talk about for a while. And I wanted to talk about it some more. So now at another ridiculous o clock, in a cold o winter a state, I wrote another poem. I spoke it.)