Blues on Beige Brown Paper

When I decide to pick the pen
When I am yanked by moments of feeling
Inside the chest to write on beige brown paper
I am reduced to shed a bit of myself behind
A pebble like a grain of coffee
A darkness that once completed me

Yet the words imprison this sensing
I can say, I am as a glow of blue ink
While it gets sucked up by paper
A glimmer before ink dries
Before unfelt winds blow it away
Before it fades in dry blues, silent.

I fade as ink stains turn words
And I know I seem a young lad
With swaying hips, stout and baying
You may even think I’m voicing thought,
Art or my proudest shame
I pity that mistake, I pity I seek a shape of self

A slice in the art of being and becoming
To shout out this harping warm on the chest.
Sometimes sadness is warm on paper
Times when you hold your tears thinking
Men don’t cry, those moments warm on ink
So when I decide to pick the pen

When my suffocating chest is damned
To feeling, I write on beige brown paper
Just seeking to gaze at those glisten
Steps of blue ink, like distant shades
Of gravestones on a crept cemetery, On snow.
If by fortune you please what you read

Be aware that a little tale of life dried with ink
A -Once upon a time…- is gone,
And cold words stand behind
Cold, dry and foggy words of whom I used to be:

“The one who saw life as kind”
“The one who saw love as true”
“The one who saw hope as real”


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