Welcome to Gaia! ::

I considered putting this in the main OP/L, but then realized that I really really didn't want to do that.

But I kinda wanted to show people this crap anyway. So here it is.

Poetry is not my forte, so constructive comments are welcome.

green

Have you ever seen a color
that whispered
There is no color?
Only different shades of one thing
the whistling, red brested robin
the young rose of dusted pink
the brilliant golden sun
it is white if you look closely
A trail of mourners, clad in black
and the pearl casket they follow
It is all a spectrum of one thing
faded then bright
then faded again
that scatters against us as we blink


---

I think I am my books
Man hates me and loves me and is indifferent
Sometimes I feel,
with all my passing amongst hands and lives
that I am nothing but a fairy tale
growing greater and greater with each telling
untill no one knows what I really am
except for me

I am the author of my books
protagonist and antagonist too.
The critic reading over and over again
but never changing a word
I am my books
and the bookshelf they sit on
and the room that holds them
and the child
coming across words he cannot pronounce
scenes he cannot understand
struggling through what has been written for him.

---

There is no reason
to hide yourself
to shroud yourself
from the scruples of others
and their Almighty Judgement.
It is a nifty trick
the masses play
to make you
envy something they don't really have
But even in prim-cut gardens
and flawless smiles
There is an emptyness
as if in the transition from
real to this,
the soul has trickled away.
---

there is something that happens in touching people
something not easily explained
it is not a Physical thing
more a feeling of that touch, deep in our hearts
where our souls rush out, and mingle upon a finger
and then rush back
to tell us of their encounter as we dream.

---

these are 2 years old at the mo. The last I found scribble in a margine of notes. XD

Yeah, I'm used to adjective laden prose, so it's hard for me to be precise.