word poetry poetry of colors

I find beauty and pain when I begin to write again.
Although my thoughts pour out perfectly onto this page, I have come to recognize that only when I am broken, that is when my words flow gently out of my mind.
I sadly have no one to pick up my pieces right now, so here I am. Writing down every little thing that escapes my mind. As if that’ll help put me back together.

You have five seconds. Five seconds and then you need to walk out of here and smile and laugh like nothing is wrong. Five seconds alone in this bathroom stall.

Five seconds.

They kissed. Play it over and over again in your head. The edge of the window obscured only what you could fill in anyway. They kissed, and that’s the end of it. No last-ditch attempts, no alternate endings. He is in love with her, and he kissed her, not you. You watched from the sidelines, just like you always do. You thought you were in the game but you’ve been benched all season, playing holograms and recordings and pictographs of memories.
For this second, embrace that rawness. He kissed her and it hurts because she isn’t you.


I know you want to argue, that you’re doing it right now. You’re making excuses and adding in ‘but what ifs.’ After all, you didn’t actually see it. Maybe your eyes played tricks on you. Maybe it wasn’t what you saw.
You want to say, but what about two days ago? What about the things he said, the way he looked at me? At just me.
It doesn’t matter what he says. It doesn’t matter how you think he felt. It doesn’t matter who you think he wants, it matters who he’s with.
And he is with her. Not you.


You were wrong about everything. Admit it. Own up to your dreams that got in the way of reality, acknowledge the danger of overanalysis. He makes you feel like home, but if he’s home, why does it feel like he just scraped out your insides?
And not for the first time. You feel hollow–cling to this. Maybe he is where your heart is, maybe he is your heart. Maybe he is everything to you, but you’re not to him. If you were, he wouldn’t have kissed her.


Remember all those things, one last time. After this, they are gone. They have to be gone. It’s the only way you’re going to survive. Remember the first time you met him and you knew you were going to fall in love with him and you knew it was going to break your heart. You always saw this coming. Deep down, you’ve just been waiting for the blow to fall.


I don’t know if you’re going to love anyone else. I don’t know if distance will finally solve what proximity cannot touch. I don’t know if you’re ever gonna really forget how much this hurts.
But one day, it will stop hurting. I promise

Look in the mirror, take a deep breath, and smile.
You are beautiful, you are brave. You love without regard for the consequences, and that is one of the best things about you.
You have amazing friends and a whole summer with them ahead of you.
Don’t miss out on that because you’re sad about him.
You are going to live through this, and you’re going to be better.

Walk out of here and don’t let them see those five seconds. Life’s too short to get all weak-kneed over some fuckboy who doesn’t care.

—  “Five Seconds in a Bathroom Stall”

Twenty One Pilots is so colorful.

The shows are red. The shows are the color of headlights through the rain, the rims of your eyes after you cry, the feeling a shout gives you. They are crimson and bright, bleeding into the heart and souls of those who can witness it.

The people are magenta and yellow, green and brown. Josh’s voice is pink-red filtered with yellow. He is summer. Tyler’s mind is green, to remind us of the trees he once screamed to. His heart is brown, for brown is made up of all the colors. And while others may call it an ugly color, I know it is a burden of an overflowing mind.

The memories are blue. Moonlight filtering through ocean waves. It is the light in the drowning, in the swimming. Memories are what remain of old shows, old speeches, old tweets, old faces. The memories are so, so blue. 

And then there is the music. It filters in where the other colors cannot reach, and therefore binds them all together. It is a pallet of broken hearts and teary eyes. A painting composed of final triumphs, and written words. It its visible when nothing else seems to be.

This is a colorful band.

She talks about him all the time. Not because she’s still in love with him but because he’s the person that she’s most grateful for. Thanks to their relationship, she managed to pick up the broken pieces of her heart and create something stronger, something greater and more beautiful. He shattered her but this let her see her true potential.
—  Some people are eternally hateful, I’m eternally grateful - Jess Amelia
You don't know me

I’m like the passing cloud,
Always changing.
Somedays I’m high,
Loud and happy.
Somedays I’m low,
Quiet and gloomy.
Yesterday I liked yellow and the beautiful morning.
Today I'm​ in love with black even though it’s depressing.
One moment I wanna get my life together, the next, I wanna stay in my bed forever.
You may think you know me,
I laugh because I’m raging storm that you don’t see.
Yeah, I may seem starry-eyed and upbeat
You are deluded as I ain’t anything but melancholy
A sad song that nobody sings.


First you cry, and then you cry. You get on a metro and go where it takes you. You leave your phone behind and go around the city alone. Get on a bus and get lost in the sounds: of traffic, of music. Jump in potholes, get your shoes dirty. Walk on the sidewalk, walk with grace. Let your hair down, let the wind untangle your knots. Go get a piercing, go try some street food. Count the red cars, then count the blue: one two three, one two three; make a wish, make another. Sit in cafes, sit on rocks, take polaroids. Run, run, run till you’ve conquered every street, every raindrop, every shadow under every lamp post. Tell every corner, “I was here, I was here.”

One step, then another, you come back home. You come back slowly, you come back calm. Play some music, your hands in the air, close your eyes and dance. Then change the song, lay still on the floor.
First you cry, and then you laugh. Then you laugh, and then you laugh.

Dear you-know-who-you-are,

today is one of those days i think of you. it’s hard to tell you why but i just do. today i forget about all the bad we’ve been through and reminisce about all the good. today i miss you. i miss how you made me laugh and feel some type of way. did you know you were the only one who loved me for me? you cared for me in the purest way. i never needed make-up, hair extensions or fancy clothes. there was no point in all of that. all you had eyes for was my soul. today i think of that because it was beautiful. but sometimes beauty requires an ugly price to pay. yet today i close my eyes to the ugly. only today.

My girlfriend likes my hair wet.
She runs her fingers through my coils
as if to straighten them
and pushes her nose against the roots.
“I love when your curls are loose,”
she says.
She is saying,
“I love the white in you.”
She teaches me the Kenyan name for people like me,
yellow pawpaw,
bright little fruit.
She relishes the term as if she’s biting into it,
letting the juices run down her chin,
and I wonder if it would taste as sweet
if it were darker.
At midnight, I am blow-drying my hair,
stretching the curls out as far as they can go
and willing them to stay.
My girlfriend leans against the bathroom door.
She says,
“You should see my sister. She’s blacker than…”
She searches for words.
Finds one, squeezes it.
“My sister is coal.
She’s darker than all of us. We told her
she was adopted from South Sudan,
like a refugee.”
I am not as yellow as my girlfriend wants to believe: Of all my friends,
I am the blackest.
They are a Starbucks menu of colors ranging from
tall creamy cappuccino
to venti milk with a drop of coffee.
They are fractions.
Half white, half black.
Half Samoan, half black.
Three-fourths white, one-fourth black.
Polish and Cherokee and Irish and Russian
and, oh yeah, black,
black at the end,
like a punctuation mark no one uses anymore.
After she meets them all for the first time,
my girlfriend laughs at me in the car all the way home.
“You made me feel bad for calling you yellow,”
she says,
“but look at your friends.”
I ask what’s wrong with my friends.
They’re black.
She says, “Barely.
And you want to be like them.
You want to be black, barely.”
She says,
“You wouldn’t have gone natural if your hair looked like mine.”
I don’t answer.
The car reeks of a chemical evergreen smell
from the Mother Africa air freshener
that swings  from the rearview mirror,
unsure of where to go.
I bought it because Jamaican incense
gives us both headaches.
My girlfriend folds one leg up to her chest
as we pull onto the highway,
and says,
“There’s a reason you only date African girls,
Caribbean girls.
What did you call them?
Girls with slits for eyes and checkmarks for noses
and hip gyrations like earthquakes.
You are terrified of being regular black.
Why are you addicted to the hyphen?”
Her nails dig into her stockings to yank out knots.
“What are you running from?”
The next day, I get braids,
and she stops running her fingers through my hair.
—  Bright Little Fruit