Go-go gadget, withdrawals no more,
a toast to addicts—there’s treasure on the floor.
X marks the spot, scribbled in Crayola,
connect all the dots—ecstasy, the night is over.
From Rock ’em Sock ’em robots to rocks in socks, a show-off,
hungry hungry Zippos, the money swells my lymph nodes, a lovely something sent ghosts—
right outside your windows,
trust no one, innuendo,
the night piggybacks the sickos.
I feel far from home, yet remotely close to sin,
my coffin’s so inviting—volunteer, I jump right in.
Fundamental frequency, but I only hit the high note,
incidental contingencies, lies in every word that she spoke.
Intentional indecency—my clip could use a reload,
a spectacle illegally, items bought without a barcode.
I yearn for entertainment, chose the red pill, hide from agents,
time’s complacent, me and drugs—true love, it’s our engagement.
And if I ever said “drugs make me a better me,”
I’m sorry that I lied—every night,
I cry myself to sleep.
blue skies and seas
yellow sun, green grass and trees
crayon-colored dreams
Mother: a wax crayon candle in a starless room
You have many layers, like an onion
And you're coloured, but not green
So a wax-crayon candle is favoured here.
Much more poetic.
Although I bathe in the dark
You sit in my corner
Flickering
flickering
like
this.
And you wish not intrude
In your offers of solace.
No.
You don't set my room on fire
You just light up my corner
With the gift of a place to be seen.
A place of security,
Whether I visit it or not.
AND YES, you are loved. YES, you are valued.
(so don't even doubt it)
And yes, your Crayola hues, your mix-n-match
May clash in the eyes of OTHERS
But parallel to even your Converse shoes:
They complement each other
And though I don't always visit this corner...
...Of candlelight in my room,
You should know you're not alone
With my candlelight, too.
jungle governor green, respectable robin egg blue
beyond banana mania, periwinkle too
brisk bluebonnet, French fuchsia and plum
tickle me pink, where did you come from?
wild strawberry, chesterfield on my swollen lips
radical red, overdressed orange wearing two slips
midnight blue, outer space light saver green
a few crayon colors at one time in a box seen.
I'm tired of absorbing your depression.
Like you're the only person on Earth who has issues.
You think nobody understands your situation.
I don't believe you want anybody to understand.
Because that's what you believe makes you troubled but unique-
Strangely, it has given you purpose in life.
Makes you special-one of a kind.
You know, like the Crayola crayon with the funny name.
Perched in the corner of the box, forgotten.
The canyon that swallows its own echo.
I'm tired of inhaling your depression.
I wasn't put on this earth to be a canvas
for cutting. mashing and blue period slashings.
That's not "my" purpose in life.
My purpose is to be accepting of the happiness
that swirls all around me.
Your depression depresses me to no end.
I'm climbing out of your Crayola crayon flash flood canyon.
splitting atoms
head cracking chasm
hold your mentality for ransom
things done at random
like writing about dragon tattoos
done by a tattooing dragon
mad passion rad pen
creative imagination
raw skills killing rhymes so gruesome
he spoke with words
that were truly wholesome
better yet awesome
I might say that often
but writing just helps me feel
a little less lonesome
coloring out the dotted lines of poetry
like a child with a wild crayon
moi
Moulded bred crusty
Summers vino severed tie
Auld Stinking Bishop
Ma
Shiny new sunspot
Shadowed by Misses Meaner
Clouded spineless imp
Pa
Longhaired lout cuddles
Pints fizzing ale gently pours
Tears orphan abandoned
I prefer them a bit tattered and tired.
(a slow lick on a hard knife edge).
A midnight she cat, sparkling like a pinwheel.
The kind that makes you obsess,
why they're one hour and five minutes late.
Why their mascara is off center.
Why they have that strange strong scent.
I like them a little mousy,
a little off the beat.
A chick that can spit with class.
Kick the living MAN out of me.
A fireball that contorts and concocts,
attends to every want and need...
(You know what I mean).
In the end, what I really need is periwinkle predictability.
A Crisco-oiled apron, the one mamma used to don.
A deep-fried lullaby in the quiet cove of a racing mind...
I want to go way back into Crayola Crayon time.
Life is like a box of crayolas at five.
Trying hard to stay inside a line defined by others;
trying hard to stay inside the line.
Too much pressure, powerful force pushing down;
I crack into pieces, fragments, pushed aside for another color
different yet the same.
Action repeat - instant re-run.
Life is like a box of crayolas,
many colors, all vulnerable to force, pressure.
Each color valuable blending difference.
Color alone beautiful;
color together special.
Life is like a box of crayolas standing by side by side,
never speaking, used by others over and over again.
Picked up to brighten day,
broken thrown away.
Life is like a box of crayolas.
One disappears, held too tight, invisible at night.
Yes, life is like a box of crayolas at five.
Freedom wanted, want denied.
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