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The only vocabulary I had acquired…
Manipulated.
He crawled into my mind, when the light grew curious and dim…
And consciously pawned the imprisoned, malicious thoughts,
Intended for severing and scribbling into my tender arm,
To an unwilling broker.
“Poetry of an illiterate and foreign form” – he said.
Abused
So I eternally maintained a high “stock”…
His glassy eyes painfully longed to see the gradual change of colour in my bleached soul.
From a virgin,
Blindingly pure shade…
To one steadily showing hues of sallowness,
To one of a decadent grey.
To one resembling a dense line of luminous graphite
Resting on a bed of crisp white paper,
Awaiting both our comprehension…
To finally,
A musky, opaque apparitional black.
Inhabitation within hollowness.
I now hear echoes of deaf thoughts…
My past, pure.
Soul, tinged.
Me, tainted.
The water is eternal.
It does not evaporate and it is not limited.
One can almost get a feel of it
If you allow yourself to be real with it.
We’re born with our own cups of water.
Walking up the boulevards of life, holding onto it desperately
Not wanting to spill it out for everyone to see,
The streets isn’t where you want your soul to be.
Your water, I mean.
Precious. Undiluted. Hydrogen and Oxygen.
All it needs is a sturdy container
Don’t let it fall into the hands of a stranger
I did.
Although that’s a tale I’ll only tell when it doesn’t feel like hell.
When I’m sure I wasn’t wrong and I didn’t fail.
Well,
Until then, let me tell another one
He’s fourteen with virgin lungs, fittingly cause he’s a Virgo.
At this age, he knows it all but one thing.
Smoking. Weed, specifically.
“What will it do to me?”
He asks in such an innocent tone.
The water is still there and it’s as fluid as ever.
He really could’ve done better … but
He had to know.
“What will it do to me?”
Fast-forward five years and about 50 blunts.
Now he’s high all the time
and he writes poetry.
Diluted water.
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