My world has turned grey,
My soul is crying,
My heart is irreparably broken,
I thought you could be my cure,
A ray of sunshine
To light up my days.
I am sorry.
I know I need to let go,
And someday I will be able to.
You were something
You are not anymore,
While I’m the same as always
Pretending the past is still present.
My words are flat,
A decomposed body,
I lost the right way,
If I ever found it in the first place.
How to recognize
When you go from a prodigy
To a wilted flower?
I had always been invisible,
But banal?
A curse, sent by my
Worst enemy,
This is the only solution.
I lost my flame,
My lighthouse,
I feel like I lost you,
But you didn’t lose me.
Please, come back.

With colours gone
Grey, forlorn
The sky a puddle, muddy morn
I have no tears
I give thee thorns.

Where laughter lived
To once exist
The room aswirl, silent cyst
I have no tears
I give thee mist.

When passion played
And love was made
Fingers clasped and grasped in vain
I have no tears
I give thee reign.

You haven’t sung this song for some time
The pain returns tears well up in your eyes
You’re writhing like twisting, turning, treetops in a storm
No comfort coming your way
Just endless waves of torn
You’ve got no time for this but time is all you have left
The disease is torturing you to Death
You give it nothing but it takes it all your breath
Your insanity wrecks havoc on you Day and Night
Your lovely soul keeps you in the fight
Don’t let a pirate in the night steal you blind
You’ve everything and nothing to lose
Dark machinations it has for you
Gray glowing moon
No more Silver Spoon
Twisting turning room for you
The Demon returns until Balance you earn
Steady your rudder
Hands upon the wheel
Find your center and Victory you shall steal

I'll always remember the mornings at home.
Where no one was happy, where everyone swore,
where sadness and anger mixed together and formed

a moody gray. Like the one in the sky before the sun came out
that almost looked blue against that house.
Probably because nothing could have had so little color
as a 7'am morning at home.

February bites down—
wind with a switchblade edge,
sky like the underbelly of something dead,
clawing at a season that turns its back,
half-winter, half-wishbone,
stuck in the throat of the year.

Sidewalks crack like dry lips.
Trees wear loneliness like a borrowed skin—
bare, brittle, bracing for something
that never arrives.

The sky stays gray,
an unanswered text.
Days sink like forgotten receipts in my tote,
asking things I can’t answer,
whispering, Didn’t you think you’d feel different by now?
Didn’t I?

The cold is a debt I keep paying in shivers,
in chapped hands, in mornings that taste like spoiled perfume
and dreams of other cities, where I wake up panting,
where I breathe out his name like an epiphany,
and let my eyes sigh closed like a prayer.

I walk through the days like a half-lit hallway,
never sure what I’m looking for,
never sure I’ll find it.

I forget what my hands were made for.
I press my palm against the frost-bitten glass,
just to prove I’m still warm-blooded.

February unspools, soft and slow,
a ribbon of time that never quite ties into a bow,
a breath held too long in a house too small.

And I—
I stand at the edge of the month like a skipped stone,
almost ready to sink, almost ready to fly,
caught in the soft ache of almost,
in the half-light of wanting.

March will come like an answer
to a question I don’t remember,
but tonight, February lingers—
a ghost-limbed thing,
a name I still chase in the dark,
leaving me unfinished,
half-written,
half-here.

In a world once muted, sepia-toned and grey,
Your vibrant canvas painted a brighter day.
A riot of colors, a symphony of sound,
Chaos and order, beautifully bound.

Your world, a sanctuary, a passion's flame,
Each brushstroke a story, a heartfelt claim.
Colors reflecting your soul's desire,
A window to your thoughts, a burning fire.

More than just colors, a language untold,
Silent spaces captured, a story bold.
The tension before the spark ignites,
Electricity humming, a sweet delight.

A monochrome existence, dull and plain,
Your technicolor world, a joyful strain.
Hues and shades, a perfect blend,
A world transformed, a loving friend.

Emotions poured, a canvas bare,
Dreams and fears, a loving pair.
A puzzle to solve, a story to tell,
Confessions revealed, a magic spell.

Desires and ambitions, a hidden art,
Deepest thoughts, a loving start.
Intricate patterns, a swirling maze,
Stories waiting, in endless days.

Delving deeper, a new sight,
Eyes opened wide, a guiding light.
A world transformed, a vibrant hue,
A colorful mosaic, me and you.

Years carry less, a foundation strong,
Youthful audacity, a righting wrong.
Irony stings, a sweet surprise,
An old man captivated, beneath his eyes.

Limitations fall, a newfound grace,
Endless possibility, a loving space.
Art, a way of life, a guiding hand,
New eyes to see, across the land.

A sleepwalker, drifting through the night,
Now wide awake, a shining light.
Brushstrokes speak, a silent plea,
Untold stories, wild and free.

Drawn into the depths, a loving art,
Swirl of colors, a beating heart.
The world through your eyes, a different view,
Contrasts and contradictions, ever new.

A mirror reflecting, a soul laid bare,
Confronting fears, a loving care.
Self-discovery, a journey's start,
Liberation and transformation, a loving art.

A kindred spirit, a fellow friend,
Artistic journey, without end.
Exploring boundaries, a daring flight,
A place to belong, a guiding light.

Unleashing colors, a wild display,
A world transformed, a brighter day.
A masterpiece, a loving art,
A bond that unites, a loving start.

Forever changed, a new-found grace,
A part of something, a loving space.
A world alive, with possibility,
Eternally grateful, me and thee

I look... empty, gray
and before that, crowds were peeked in

Everyone laughs, smiles
and my empty painting presses me against the wall without a moment's thought

I see someone painting my picture frames
With a different brush than the grave, the altar

He paints with words, good deeds
The image becomes something different from the gray and half-world reverie

He is a painter, a painter of my life's painting.