Out of my mind flows blue
My wrists are red
My hands are shaking
I'm lost in my head
The thoughts will scream
And torment my mind
The blue rhythm flows
Says I will be fine
Baby Blue. Teal.
Aqua or royal
Or is crimson the color
As my blood starts to boil
The blue will grow bleak
The colors are fading
The papers my pallet
My pen is still waiting
For the colors to rush
Flood out of my eyes
Purple finds its way
To ruin the blue skys
Words and emotions
Will never be the same
Though colors and thoughts
May share the same name
The green is still hidden
The yellow is missing
The blue in my head
While the black lips are kissing
A rainbow, no
An explosion of thought
But the blue will stay with me
Like it or not
About the Creator
Chase Gage
Poet. Journalist. Sports guy. Music dude.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munsona day ago in Fiction
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