Gray/Grey 28

You slip up and out feet first
Magnets float past gravity, plant your toes
You hold manuscripts, scribbled dream sequences
This is everything you will ever have to offer
You will claw your throat's corded coffers
For strangers few and far appart
To gratify that which was so almost; unreal?

Let's examine this.

Dark dreams lead leaky eyes to be blackened
Outside while purple skies reflect the tenant's lies
Your inside shines with barnacles and brine
Your urge to let words slip lips and converge
Makes you a target, self-painted for roaming poet claimers
They tarp your wild words with vines and herbs
They trap your bubble speech with trivial weeds and fleas
Bite your own eyes out or seek to see
That nobody really speaks to trees.

But every dreamer seaks to dream, so you must be a prodigy.
Or, unless you claim to know by name the song that remains the same
You are a wicked liar and must be made to spit fire
Not that which you profess, only that made from red silk dresses
Only that carved by hammer-formed messes
Only those listen that can't afford to best it.
Only be real when reality is subjective.

So you use dark skies to undermine the wicked word wielders.
You draw lines that scratch past pleasure.
You must conform to new measures.
And this is discordance.

Do not deem the story dead though until it is.
Until only the real young minds that find time for blue skies
Can reach down and save your life.

You can't really afford not to cry or nobody pays attention.
Weird.