echo clinks of water on chains of concrete forming slivers of the 

false world

fake which can't sing

you in your silver shoes with the 

silver rain leaving metallic stains down your cheeks

haven't you ever hated the silence of the world 

when there is no rain and the hush of the sun is deafening

i know i have

hey you in your emerald tie with the emerald bubbles of water in your eyes

eyes which waltz from one object to another one glimmer to another

and sometimes the objects of your dalliance dance back

have you enough energy to run for the both of us

to get us out of this brown tangle of stringy branches 

have you a loud enough voice to sing for the both of us and reach the sky

tickle it to make it weep with rain 

and your eyes can become an oil painting again

i'm sick of this “new you”

you say that happiness makes me unproductive

in that venom dark voice of yours those pills they give you make you stupid

they steal your voice

you with the red eyelashes and the black lips which hold the tiniest droplets of red rain

you reflect in the coke puddles on the city streets 

you reflect the pastels of the real world

you pick up your brick and hurl it at the sky and by god it never comes down

so my eyes are sticky taped to the blue waiting 

for any sign of a speck being flung from the sky

but not a single dot

so you in your blue canvas never die and leave me to fend for myself

i fear if you go so will i soon enough because without you 

i don't think the world would take me

who am i without you

not much perhaps

but i would rather stay mute with wide open eyes that see the glowing beauty of the world around me

be blind and shout my love what good does it bring you

my eyes would stay a little pink but I'm not sure and 

perhaps my eyelashes would stay a little blue 

but the world has deceived before

can't the inky red of the sun enclose you in this sanctuary of the morning 

like the soft wisps of smoke that follow you every where you go

along every road every trail you leave behind the taste of strawberry milk

but the pink of your world always was liquefied

hey you with the black wounds on your arm that send out jagged rips of fire and smoke

hey you with the black cut on your head with the stains of blood looking pretty

but almost too pretty

i think you went for that depressed beauty suffering artist face

so cliché

with the graze on your knee

from the time you slipped on red wine and went skidding into thorns

are you OK

i can see the tears welling

like hot soapy bubbles