The other night I read a poem from a poet
who spoke of colors of the soul.
Well that poem spoke so loudly
I realized right then... mine is the color of coal.
People see the love I write,
but what they don't see.. is how I feel.
I'm a man who is dying inside,
who has nothing but dreams and nothing to reveal.
The color so empty, and so hollow.
Sometimes so hard to breath,
but most of all its so hard to swallow.
In this life, all I ever wanted,
was just one more chance.
A chance to prove the little things,
do matter in life's stance.
I've been dreaming of love
dreaming to once again live.
Just searching for the strength to endure,
just one more day to survive.
I watch the sunrise everyday,
Just to watch sink into the night.
I sense the cold it brings,
The core so raw, emotions bleed, and I begin to write.
I imagine as I begin to write,
once again I can feel the love.
That I am whole, filled
With everything I speak of.
I believe in second chances
A chance to do another dance.
To dance the dream,
So I can re-experience the scheme,
Out there somewhere, an angel
Awaits to save me.
To once again fill me with color,
Showing me to believe,
Believing in my dreams
Lifting me, from my knees
so once again I can see.
