A sprouting seed

How do we forget what we feel?
If feelings come from the heart,
And memories are the electricity in our brains,
If our hearts do forget,
Does that make our hearts electric?
Does that mean that we're all made like batteries,
A body of voltage from the push and pull between our hearts and heads,
When will it stop then?
When I have stopped pulling, or when you have stopped pushing?

The great red house of soup

Behind our circles of smoke and hot soup,
They slowly began,
Covered in the shadow of yellow lights,
The skinny stature of a bent man straightens,
As the red paint glows,
Brighter and brighter,
The truest of stars,
Shining over the darkest nights.

Black tarred roads

Here we are,
Tending to our broken soles,
Mending our jagged souls,
Stained by the rough road we tread,
Black from the tar,
Red from the blood,
Faded colours washed by sweat,
Walking, running and hacking,
All for a glory in waiting,
Hidden behind a misty morning.

The heaviest words

You are the soft afternoon breeze,
Bearing the weight of a hot day,
Unnoticed until you've passed.

You are the shades of twilight,
Only there when I pause to look,
Only there at the end of a plight.

And I've learned of people like you,
Of entertainers in empty rooms,
With trails of deafening silence as they leave,
Drowning your audience slowly,
Squeezing us into insanity.

That was when I built my hate for you,
So I would be spared from your silence,
My half-hearted resolve to survive,
From a life spent only to keep breathing.

But here I am,
Finding my way back to you,
When the sun pierces the most,
I crave for your silent presence,
As I wept to drown the world.

The familiar twinkle

You are the puzzle I've solved many years ago,
On the day we came crashing down onto each other,
Leaving between us a mess of tangled up red knots,
As we dangled around in the stuffy room,
Frantically searching for each other's fingers,

Today the last of the red knots were unbind,
And as we found each other on the glittering floor,
I whispered that your fingers are electric,
Just as your smile,
Was telling me that so was mine.

Your fingers are made of garlics and chopped wood

You are always brown,
Always, as if you have chosen your mascot colour,
With your skin as the mask,
Standing slightly bent,
On jagged feet shaped by broken glass,

You have always been an arrow,
Straight, unbent and piercing,
With intensity that didn't fade with your hair,
You could break me in half if you wanted to,
Many times you have done so without intending to,

Maybe all I wanted you to know is that its okay,
That I'm okay,
That I've grown to know the value of lost things,
The value of a brown arrow,
Straight yet bendable,
With uneven, rusty tip,
Piercing and intense,
With bitter scratch marks,
An old school wrought iron,
Patched together as many times as it broke.

Vibrance in monochrome anguish

You can count the pills like everyone else count their blessings,

And I will count the times you've said no when you felt a yes is too dangerous,
Because we've been taught that conformance is a blessing and dissent is a curse,

And I promise I'd understand every time it gets you confused,
Because we've both seen how blessings consume people like the pills consumed you.