Poems & Short stories

Color of Words

The words we speak and write, they all have a color-

Not the color of the pen, though the color of the pen is just as mighty.

Mother says my words are a dull Gray, and light-

The gray words I speak are faint whispers with pathetic sorrow filling in their light mass. Fading words like pencil on paper, fading through the staggering years. But I cover the gray words-

There still gray, but a darker gray, more solid, believable words. They won’t fade and the solitude they hold forms a rock that impacts you when I speak , that leaves a throbbing sensation, echoes through your mind when I'm gone.

Mom's words are a warming Yellow. Filled with comfort and solitude. Words  sturdy and trust worthy enough to build a brick house, to stand, jump, run on.

My father's words, Lime Green with dull Orange chunks, a sour rotting smell reeks from his words.

His words make mine change-

From the Gray soft ashy color, turning Red and hot. Like a lit coal sparking embers, the more he speaks he fuels the rage in my words that burn down a whole forest with loud thundering trees falling to the ground. The snapping of the trees and writhing screams of the forest life fleeing

His words spill like lighter fluid as he refuses not to stop. His green chunky orange stench words poison the ground of the burning forest.

Finally my mother's words, yellow sunshine, shun the poisoned words and isolate them away from my burning wood. Leaving me to let it burn as I walk off.

To let the fire burn and then finally fade out, leaving nothing but light gray ash, that blows away in the clear wind. My words are always gray due to the lime green stench poison and the fired, burnt forest.

But your words, soft like silk fur. To my burnt and scared forest bound never to grow life again, it's suddenly cooled and the ash is washed away and it relieves the heat that could spark another fire. The black smoke that blocked the blue skies is now cleared, and your sky blue words show me hope.

Then her words, her words are brown, like new soil and the seeds that burrow and make it their bed. Finally cleared of the gray ash.

With mother’s warm yellow words like the sun and yours; soft rain blue and her brown seeds of new life, my words magically change.

Unfortunately, the small saplings and green shoots that spring up never will last long. For the stank stench of the poison orange chunky lime green poison can never stand to see new life and happiness grow-

Forever will I be bound to speak my light weight gray ashy language.