how many different ways can you
say that the world is a place
not worth living in?
how many different lives must we live
before we realize that crayons only satisfy
this scratchy, color-by-numbers idealism
that causes holes in the thin page?
we yearn to describe all of this pain
but on most words, we impose limits.
we cause the strict nature of our
safety training take hold,
as we let go.
metaphors are used more than one way-
and i cant say i'm out of control,
implying i was ever in.
the colors so vividly presented,
like a six-year-old's pride and joy.
yet the young soul has not ventured where
expression has no soul itself-
it has not found the color black,
except for the outlines.
if he only knew how soon
that it would be filling in.
yet he, he will not describe it as torture;
he will not describe it as despair.
nor suffering, nor strife nor
anything
that can not be said using four letters.
Pouring out the blood, he might say-
Again, but he has found a knack for cliche.
Instead of describing the agony of it all he
Needs only one word to walk his way from living
to this adolescence between hope and the great mundane.
he will walk, crayons in hand,
and mutter pain.

04/26/2003

Posted on 04/27/2003
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams