Why is everything you say just, “okay”?
It’s like you don’t even bother to try and portray.
Your eyes are blue, but your world is gray.
You pretend like there’s something that is always in the way.
Cold and alone, dark and damp. The mark you make is a blurry, smudged stamp.
No one ever gets you. That’s not to say we don’t try—you just make it so awkward with that look in your eye.
Distant, mistrusting. Sorrowful thrusting.
Shoving the world away from your light. We know and we’ve seen that you can be so bright.
But I swear to god it is always a fight, just for you to admit, “it’s alright.”
Something’s not right. There’s a shade to your light.
You don’t say what you mean, you just say what we like, and that false sense of approval keeps you up at night.
Just a shimmer, not a scene. Just a sliver of a dream. When you wake up you try to understand what it means, but it changes while fleeting away and it seems—
So different.
The lights fade away and the shadows appear. Engulfing the night with a curious fear.
You hold your breath until the air is clear, but it never gets more than translucent, my dear.
A Poet’s Qualm 