existence.

"Sad stuff makes beautiful poetry, but it's not so pretty to live with." [-Merecat]
*For the Dear Diary Competition*
(I recommend anything beyond 'Tumbling Ash' for the rest is a mess of nonsense words that hold no character, no story and absently fill the page)

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90. Salmon Days

 

Sometimes my treks through the park when the world is submerged in sticky darkness

and the trees drip dark from their emerald leaves,

leave me in wonder of the sky's colours and how I miss it sometimes through the dirt-stained

windows of my mother's car.

 

Half the sky was tinted rose pink with cold lavender clouds,

the other side clipped a light salmon with tangerine clouds that are brushed to display the

illuminating lemon light that spills from the guts of the colour.

 

Behind me flew red and in front flew grey and I was surrounded by a whirlwind

of colour that danced with spring tones despite the prominent

frost dusting the grass.

 

My words were frosted too,

with hatred and secrets and confusion that soared in arches and crumpled to

shiver beneath the leaves decorating the blades I stamp beneath my feet.

 

My shoes soak with water,

dew,

crystallised lies that submerge themselves in the fabric and remind me of my heavy day,

of my morning walks where birds sing and how the songs

die to rest in trees til the morning because the evening is not beautiful enough to be granted

the music

although it goes un-noticed with my headphones.

 

I squeeze myself dry of showing sorrow through hugs and hand holds

and join clans with arms linked,

screeching to the skies that were clouded white at the time because lunch holds no beauty,

it holds minutes that attempt to fly but fall to the mess of sweets on the ground

and new haircuts from wasted weekends.

 

My mornings hold secrets and my

lunches hold screams and

my evenings hold tossed sweets and tinted clouds and oozing black

and arguments and outed lies and frozen words.

 

-7th December 2015

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