I have fallen into a pattern of

ticking and tock-ing

for those who simply miss the measurement of time.

My mouth is stained red, but my

mind is enveloped in tones of blue, no longer

filled to the brim with heat;

it is simply teetering on a line of

‘here’ and ‘there’ and

I cannot decide if that is a way to be.

My friends have named me ‘Hushed’ though

demons behind my face thrash and belt

in their cage to simply see the white

of a page; feel freedom in lines.

They are often restricted and I am

tangled in convictions, too absent to

hope anything for them.

I speak in metaphors to contain the truth that

I think in black and white; it adjusts the

difficulty of distinguishing who I am and who I am not.

Nothing is but what is not, you see.

I swear that my journals are private, however they are

left in odd places for obvious reasons.

Much of my time alone is spent carving truths into parks’ wooden

tables to leave behind words like footprints. My words are here, in me.

It is not too much to want someone to understand that

I have fallen into

A pattern of

coming and going

because I’d rather be missed, like

the sight of a lover’s blue eyes, than

ignored, like the slightly darker pieces of grass

swaying on the other side.

I do like to be alone,

only when it is controlled

otherwise I’m known

to spin words and colors into

patterns.