48

You say colour, and I retreat.
To the greys and the blacks and whites that lully me to sleep.

Colour, you repeat.
And something cuts through me, warm and deep.

Red is the colour of heat.
Is the colour I see on the flush of your cheeks.

With every colour you say don't be scared, this is it.
And I understand, finally, what it's like when the canvas is complete.

47

I've always wanted to write nice things.
Things you hear and pierce through your heart
things you remember when it's dark at night
things that are written where the stars die.

As always I fall short of expectations
and become someone I don't know
someone who dreams of millions of foreign nations
but is too afraid to just let it out and go.

I've always wished to make it everlasting
the touch between the words and the soul
Make a song, make a sonet
make anything that is worthy even if at all.

I never succeed at trying as hard as I should
as hard as I know some people do
I never can give what I don't seem to have
nor find it inside of me, where does it hide?

I've always, really, wanted to write meaningful things.
But I find myself in a white sheet
with a space to loud and too big
and a head to useless to make it.