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Array ( [sid] => 103605 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Painting. [time] => 2005-08-16 00:16:55 [hometext] => I rarely open up to people. This past Saturday, I did. (c+c.) [bodytext] => Incapability seizes the mind,
tongue comatized, lips magnetized.
The cold humanity still seeps
from caustic pores; broken, inflamed.

And you.
You who had always just been
a stillframe in my thoughts,
the last flame of the last sunset
behind the perfect visionaries that had once been my jailors.

(Maybetheystillare.)

But then you cajoled me into dismantling my own walls;
block by block, stone by stone.
I murdered my own security blanket,
and the police removed it from the scene,
accusing it of my crimes.

"Expiration date:
August
thirteeth,
two-thousand and five,"
read the label, the ignition to Panic.

Darkness swiftly envelops the thought-processes,
to become no more than
wailing lights (patrioticblood.)
and the epileptic seizures
that never exist. (theyreallinyourhead.)

Twitching pulsation signifies
the rhythm of a heart on overload,
the sort that die in explosions of light
and with much ado.

And then the words bloom,
halting soliloquies, inherently simple
as to be almost painful
to the humanized ear.

Nonsensical whimsy;
a true shot to the heart,
is what really creates speech.
(This despite the fact that the English language is not prone to emotion.)

And the future is still
a bleak canvas,
but there's only a single color on
the artist's palette.

It's all just faintly grey with a slight tinge of red. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 179 [topic] => 48 [informant] => _myonlyone_ [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => EmotionalPoetry )

Painting.

Contributed by _myonlyone_ on Tuesday, 16th August 2005 @ 12:16:55 AM in AEST
Topic: EmotionalPoetry

Incapability seizes the mind,
tongue comatized, lips magnetized.
The cold humanity still seeps
from caustic pores; broken, inflamed.

And you.
You who had always just been
a stillframe in my thoughts,
the last flame of the last sunset
behind the perfect visionaries that had once been my jailors.

(Maybetheystillare.)

But then you cajoled me into dismantling my own walls;
block by block, stone by stone.
I murdered my own security blanket,
and the police removed it from the scene,
accusing it of my crimes.

"Expiration date:
August
thirteeth,
two-thousand and five,"
read the label, the ignition to Panic.

Darkness swiftly envelops the thought-processes,
to become no more than
wailing lights (patrioticblood.)
and the epileptic seizures
that never exist. (theyreallinyourhead.)

Twitching pulsation signifies
the rhythm of a heart on overload,
the sort that die in explosions of light
and with much ado.

And then the words bloom,
halting soliloquies, inherently simple
as to be almost painful
to the humanized ear.

Nonsensical whimsy;
a true shot to the heart,
is what really creates speech.
(This despite the fact that the English language is not prone to emotion.)

And the future is still
a bleak canvas,
but there's only a single color on
the artist's palette.

It's all just faintly grey with a slight tinge of red.

Copyright © _myonlyone_ ... [ 2005-08-16 00:16:55]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: Painting. (User Rating: 1 )
by deadheadpoet on Tuesday, 16th August 2005 @ 12:37:16 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Wow. that was an excellent write. I loved the first stanza and the third...I murdered my own security blanket, and the police removed it from the scene....the seventh stanza was awesome and the very last line. "It's all just faintly grey with a slight tinge of red."Thanks for sharing this. Peace to you. Laura

Re: Painting. (User Rating: 1 )
by tin on Tuesday, 16th August 2005 @ 12:46:36 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

I agree, it's a very good piece. thank you for sharing it with us.

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