Pastels (Poem)

Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.

In this blidning, tightening air.

Overwhelmed,

with the blue

It's all around the upper me.

And I'm trying so hard, to get to the mud,

And it pulls me in, up to my knees,

But I can feedl the hard gravel,

Baracading my feet,

And I try,

And I struggle,

And I scream,

To try to chip,

And break the concrete,

So while my chest,

Is filled with air,

so fresh and vibrant,

And my eyes see the green,

My toes are long lost,

And covered in the dried, crusted mud.

Do I try to climb out?

Though the mud it grips my ankles,

dark hardened vines of dirt,

Like moving statues,

moving- yet still stuck in a lesser time...

"Free. Free. Free."

The numbness calls to me,

"Come to where the air isn't bright and blinding,

And the mud isn't even there,

Emotions- no longer binding,

They don't exist here.

And you know I'll protect,

from the conflict up there,

because you've been here before.

Sink into a beautiful place with me,

The colors? Whatever you want them to be,

But stay and never, ever leave.

Sink deeper into the 'Pastels?' with me."

I don't speak back, but it knows I disagree,

Because, for now, I think I should wait and see.

If I sit through the fight,

That's going on inside of my mind,

Maybe, just maybe, someone will win,

But it's hard. So hard.

And I can't put up with the vines and the

gravel and the blue and the green,

For much longer...

Because the vines, they dig at my skin and burn and slice,

And the green, it tugs and yanks at my neck,

The blue, it shoves thorns in my head,

It hurts so much,

And the more it does,

The more I can see,

The pastels.