True Colors

My pen has begun to move, in place of my mouth that has simply refused

as it has nothing nice to speak...

I have been fed plenty of food for thought from minds that hear only their own speech‐

and I have given ear to voices belonging to the many that don't understand...

simply unable to hear the weight of such a place,

between the overwhelmingness of what cannot and the emptiness of what can

be endured, only to receive more...

of what remains to be reasonless, in its place‐

What is being tested is the extent of my feeling of displeasure

and the limit, of what I can distaste‐

but be that as it may, it has been decided,

that what colors I see, will be the colors I imitate

~

Ink has stained yet another page of mine, in place of my lips that remain sealed

as there is no kind speech that drips from them...

I have tasted what is countless, in empty words, vain lecture, and speeches that hold nothing within‐

As my choice of words must have not clearly communicated just how close to the edge of control I am‐

I pity not, the ears that listen only to speak, as they ought to have a mouth in their place instead.

But might I instead, use this voice I'd rather not hear to speak the dread of where I stand?...

or might I instead remove this mask from my face?...

that this world might see how my eyes are seeing only red‐

Might I simply let go, of all that is restraint...

that my grievance, in its raw form, may consume its surroundings in haste

and might I remove this conscience, and give birth to colors that so desperately desire to show their faces‐

as the colors I see, will be the colors I imitate.

~

I have written in black, and I have written in blue

now, it is the color red I have chosen to embrace‐

As my eyes have become quite familiar with its hue,

it is only natural for it to take its place...

front and center, on a stage that chooses to exist with no filter.

The color of language I choose not to speak will reveal itself with no care

without fear and with no supporting cast to keep clear the air...

as this ink is subject to ignite and burn in the color in which it is written,

and the distinct nature of such a subject is as volatile as the emotion written within it‐

The haze of smoke to shroud this cloud of witnesses

will at last show what colors my eyes have come to taste‐

as the colors I see, have become the colors I imitate.

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