I spoke to you last Friday,
Lights dim and skirts brushing the floor.
You were wearing folds of blue,
Clad in pleats and flowers.
We talked about nothing of importance,
Pockets and converse and models.
I kept waiting for that recognition,
The twinge in my chest I always feel.
I didn't feel it.
I looked at your face, heard your voice,
Eyes shadowed with sparkle.
I didn't miss you.
I remember our late-night chats,
Endless conversations just like this one.
I couldn't see that girl in you.
I wonder, I can't help it,
If you felt that way as well?
One thought stuck in my mind,
A question you will never hear;
When you were choosing your dress,
In a colour I always loved on you,
The shade of blue I say you've always shone in.
Did I ever cross your mind?
Did you think of me?
Did you remember my praises fondly,
Remember the colour I loved you to wear?
I kept thinking of that dress after that,
Of our first conversation since you left.
I miss that girl.
But I don't miss you.
I think I could be friends with you,
The girl in the light blue dress.
The girl I used to know.

The whole world was gray
November’s first snowy day
Not a single winter racquet

And in the midst of the white
And the foggiest sight
I saw a man in a dark blue jacket.

I’d seen him before
And that I swore
As he was a classmate of mine

In past Fall’s red hue
I remember seeing the blue
Of the man’s dark jacket’s shine

i always saw him in the hall
he wasn’t particularly tall
but wherever i was, he was too

and when i saw him at lunch
my friend told me his hunch:
“i think that blue jacket man might like you”

i admired the admiration
but felt no butterfly-in-stomach sensation
so maybe i had to go and pack it

then the following saturday
when from my classes i was away
i saw the man in the dark blue jacket

he had tried to sit next to me in class
and i told my friends to ask
if i could sit further away from the bloke

in the corners of my eye he was there
How much longer could I bear?
the bare blue of his deep colored coat

so when i was walking home one afternoon
i hadn’t tried to get home too soon
The days only becoming hazier

The winds were speeding fast
A man behind me tried to walk past
I saw the dark blue of his blazer.

he turned to look at me
stopped, starred to see
and began to walk slowly behind

i started sprinting to my abode
snow now down rode
the blue jacket man on my mind

his pace sped up too
and if only i knew
how no one would believe me

was he stalking?
should i start talking?
the blue jacket man’s spree

So I didn’t tell them the truth
I knew their words wouldn’t soothe
His eyes always on me

In the park he was there
Lurking like a ******* nightmare
His aura seemed aquamarine-y

I see him in my room
I know I shouldn’t assume
That that blue jacket is his

How is he everywhere?
You gave me a scare
Now go back to your biz !

He is in my screams.
He is in my dreams.
Blue jacket man, get out!

He is in my eyes
He is in my lies
Flow out with the water spout

He is in my lungs
I’m speaking in tongues
And as my eyes begin to fade

I see a smearing blue
Across my vacant view
That jacket of his facade

That dark blue.
Blue.
blue.

Maybe in all my attempts to get ahold of you
I'll finally get ahold of myself

Sighing memories washing over me in the flow of a deep
blue sea, — my skin glimmers with the love of the sun, but its
affection is too overwhelming; my tears cascade, transforming every
ground beneath my feet, into an ocean the moment I step outside.

Please don’t crash into me as if I were an unguarded entrance –
the outside world hammered at the door of my heart, demanding to
be let in by any open conversation — but it takes more time for me
to open up.

Those open scars, raw and untended, are like emotional
whirlpools, dragging me down into the abyss of pain and sorrow.

I've been to the crushing
place.
It smells of death, and
spider mums.
Daisy chains dropped
when the music died.
The lake is murky now.
Clowns roam the street,
looking for carnivals
and meat.
Silly boys still believe
in love and dreams, and
girls that like opera and
giving head.
This world is strange, and
Picasso walks the lonely
avenues, feeding
seagulls' peanuts and paint.
No one blames him.
It's his blue period.
All the while,
an old bent man plays
the guitar.
He smells like camels,
and hope.

it was either during middle school or junior high school
honestly, I can't remember
my English teacher told us to write a poem
didn't matter if it was long as a railroad station
or short as a pathway shortcut
"Just write" she said
she gives me a piece of paper and pencil
and told me a few examples that I can use for my first poem
but one example sparked my interest
"You can write about your favorite color" she said
so, with that in mind I start to begin writing
I wrote about the color blue
and things that have that color in it:
the sky
ocean waves
blueberry muffins
blue jays
sadness and sorrow
depression and numbness
the pain of being found guilty
the feeling of emptiness
being left alone
and showing signs of loneliness

I went on and on until my fragile hand started to cramp
but when I reached the end of my poem
I realized something very peculiar
blue wasn't my favorite color
yet I had presented blue in a way far more than just a “primary” color
When I submitted it to my teacher
she said that she loved it and gave me a good grade
later, when I got my paper back
I reread it a few times
crumbled it up to a ball
and chucked it into the nearest trash can
hoping that no one would find it