Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.17.152.174
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
Poor miserable mysterious color,
Not a dark, not a light, an in between. 
Oh the complexity of gray in laundry.
This neutral hazy excuse for a color,
like the polluted version of white,
or the immature offspring of black.
Gloomy, uninspiring, gray surely must be 
the fraternal twin of gleaming desirable silver. 

In a gray room, gray senses linger in air like overcast,
damp enough to deepen your breath, 
muggy enough to sting your eyes.
An old dead coat of thick gray dust 
dresses a bookshelf of unused knowledge,
which plays house to a gray photograph,
…A gray girl without a smile. 
Bulky furniture colors the room gray,
taking on a dead life of its own. 
Gray clouds stretch whistles of wind through an old window,
the eerie draft sways the once white sheets, 
stirring gray dust,
reminding us all, that time is forgotten.

Gray touches time. 
As age
As wisdom, like an old man’s beard, 
as power, like a dark stone pathway, 
forcefully planning our footsteps,
obnoxious, as a gray seagull 
stealing my sandwich crumbs, as well as my privacy on a sandy beach shore. 
Damn the gray seagull!
Interrupting the black and white rigidity in my ignorant world of perfection,
forcing me to see things as they truly are.

My eyes gaze up my mountain of hopes,
till I see a gray stormy sky, 
which casts out gray sounds like the surprise of thunder in a convertible with a 
broken top, 
playing Simon Says with chilling gray rain, 
dripping gray water spots of smeared ink on my morning newspaper,
smudging the lies, 
developed by gray minds of people unable to see past what they know,
more blind then the actual eyes of the blind, 
but better off then those with gray hearts, who do not know who they are. 


We are born opening our eyes to the white light of this world 
and die closing them to black darkness…
We are not born with gray minds 
but die with them,
as we cloud our abilities with gray standards and gray walls, 
un-wanting to explore any unfamiliar gray area,
until we ourselves, unknowingly turn gray.
Even in death, we never break the blind borders that confine us.
Our perception remains gray,
Always attempting to look beneath the surface,
When really 
We need to look at the same surface differently.
This world remembers us by what we did,
instead of who we were…
Sooner or later,
No one is ever known
And we all become…
nothing 
but gray.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required