#3ampoetry

It's like my rib cage was playing pinball with the sound of your laugh, bouncing it up & around my bones,  striking & lighting them up as it goes, praying to all that is good, I never drop the vibrations.

So I'll walk along the dark and scary streets of my mind, and I'll sing a happy song to pretend I'm not afraid of myself.

His eyes, the first of many things about him that I had fallen in love with. Those beautiful eyes used to hold the ocean, the sky, the color of midnight jazz music, the color of New Orleans or the color of old faded jeans. The color of heartbreak and hope and love and hate. Maybe it was the way they reminded me of the sky when the sun sets on a cold winter night, or the ocean when a storm has passed and everything is calm. Maybe it was the way they sparkled like fairy lights and shone like water in a cavern, or the way the light reflected them like the moon off the ocean.    Maybe it was the way they looked at me, wide and vulnerable. Maybe it was the way they hardened like ice, and then softened like clay. Or maybe it was how when the golden rays of the sun reflected off them just so it looked like he held snowflakes in those two orbs of his. His eyes were the color of late night dreams or early morning kisses. The color of conquered fears and conquest and adventure. The color of buying a one way ticket, the color of a child's laugh or your best friends giggle. Maybe it was the color of a star, those faraway stars that seem to be falling endlessly and maybe one day they will crash down to earth, blazing in all the fiery that his eyes always were.    Maybe I fell in love with them because they stood out against the gray and the black of the city around them, shockingly intense against a drab surrounding. Maybe they took me by surprise, grabbing me and holding me there. Maybe they were the color of forest rivers or bubbling brookes. The color of fireworks or a child's hope for the world. Perhaps they were the color of drowning, the color of oxygen, the color of Mardi Gras or Los Angeles in the summer. The color of wilted flowers or the color of cotton candy. Perhaps they were the color of leaps and bounds and taken chances. The color of smooth jazz and whistle notes, the color of tarnished leaves and broken glass, tainted memories and broken philosophies. The color of a cracked note or the color of gospel, the color of fallen angels and raised demons. Perhaps they were the color of happiness and success and failure. The color of a bruise on the skin, or a bruise on the heart.     Maybe they were the color of sadness or the color of that sickness that we call love.

Colours Of Insanity