A Poem by William

"where did you go, as the lights went black? look what's become of me."


she’s a million shades of gray
and all the [none of the] colors in between.
she’s dying for that shock of red
she saw when she first touched him
[when he first touched her heart]
but she’s still stuck in the black and white
contrast of situation and circumstance.

he’s debilitated, incapacitated,
stumbling through this tangle of bleeding colors.
he knows he can’t survive it
but it doesn’t stop him from
still, every time he hears them
screaming, and screaming, and screaming
at each other, he can’t help but wonder,
is this the last [good]night?
[and it’s all the violent, brutal dyes,
like the blood on his sister’s shirt]
he wants to let go.
[like the blood on her [unmoving] chest
what a tragic accident.”]
but he knows.
[if at first you don’t succeed
try [to die] again.]

she knows he doesn’t know how much she loves him

nd it might be because they’ve never spoken―
but sometime between the watching the sun in his hair
and the color he bleeds into the torn, monochrome
world around him and the dreaming about him,
she’s decided she can’t live without him.
[which might end better if he knew she existed.]
but now, she doesn’t know which hurts worse,
that careless rejection,
or his deadwhite dismissing smile,
but she tells herself
she won’t be fooled again by his
goldenrod hair with those
brilliant blue eyes and his
vivid purple shirts and
the intense red circle
painted on his chest that
bleeds color into his black heart.
[she isn’t sure if it’s black,
but the spite in her likes to imagine.]
she’s sure his heart is black,
as ugly as the whites of his
ohsoscared eyes.

he woke up screaming again
and the mirror only reflected the nightmares
[backbackback at him]
in his b-b-blue eyes.
he knows that they’re lies―they lie
and it’s only the tangled white sheets, binding his arms,
that stopped him from clawing them out.
and when the door to his room
shakes on its hinges as the fist
poundspoundspounds it,
the fear finally smothers him
and leads him back to the safe
lines between black and white.
[don’t color in[between] the lines.]

she doesn’t know why she
can’t get those eyes out of her head
can’t stop her dead imagination
[it’s not dead when he’s on her mind]
from conjuring his colors
at the most inconvenient times
and filling her mind with
carmine and copper and cobalt
and crimson and cyan
when she’s supposed to be recording
the black and white and gray of history
on the stark white paper.
[she never could explain the colors of that essay]
it had to be him.

it’s just a normal, twisted day for him
when he sees her for the first time.
and maybe not the first time
but it’s the first time he notices her eyes
[so dark, they might as well be black,
so he lies to himself, and pretends they’re are]
and the fact that she’s painted her nails blackandwhite.
he remembers some distant memory
of her approaching him,
but he can’t, can’t, can’t
remember why.
[so he walks by her.]

she dreams in vividcolor for the first time
it’s a dream she can’t forget.
hours later, it’s still in her head and it’s still
running through her veins, and it’s
still boiling in her blood.
she just

can’t get him out of her head.

maybe it’s desperation,
but maybe hello is noncommittal,
either way, she’s the only solid thing
in his world of garish, bleeding colors,
and he just
can’t get her out of his head.

she can’t believe it when he stops her,
puts that hand on her arm
[she’s seeing that shock of
delicious cherry red again]
and it's disgusting [but actually delightful]
how a simple “hello” can have her heart racing.
[“you had me at hello.”]
and in his eyes are slanted lines
of blue and black and white.
maybe black and white,
but he’s reinvented color.

somehow he knows,
something’s changed.
he’s not sure what it is,
but she’s there, now,
and he knows that [maybe]
he can survive
until he can g-g-get out.
[get out while he still can]
‘cause he’s had more than enough
screaming for a lifetime.

she knows it’s only because
he’s the imagination [colors]
she’s always wanted.
and he tells himself it’s only because
she’s the balance [contrast]
he’s always needed.
but he’s always wanted
to have someone tell him it will be okay.
and she’s always needed
to have someone tell her she’s good enough.
[‘cause it’s okay to color between the lines.]



4th place Sep 6, 2010

Best Couple in Love! Sep 7, 2010

© 2011 William

Author's Note

chromatomania and [what I would suppose would be] chromatophobia [?]. Obsession and fear of colors, combined into one little nugget of what I think is decent writing. :D

My Review

Would you like to review this Poem?
Login | Register


This has beautiful imagery. :) I might suggest looking over the lines where you use the brackets, because though it may make it a tad more aestheically pleasing, it does hurt the flow of the poem when reading it. I would think seriously about taking them out all together. I think it would be so much nicer without them. :)

Posted 10 Years Ago

I love this. In spite of the length, it was well worth my squinting and struggling to finish it. Eyes are failing me. The way you run some of the lines together in the italic roman numeral verses is perfect. It adds to the urgency to be heard and the chaotic mess of thoughts. Over all, this gives me a somber feeling.

Posted 10 Years Ago

wow, this was amazing. it really was a work of art!

Posted 10 Years Ago

Just amazing. I enjoyed reading this.

Posted 10 Years Ago

Very descriptive. It's a little long for my taste, only because I can be a little spacey, but this piece flowed so easily, and read like a story, I enjoyed it, especially the last verse. Great read.

Posted 10 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Once again, AWESOME. I am definitely keeping this chroma business in the back of my head for future reference..

Posted 10 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


6 Reviews
Shelved in 1 Library
Added on July 12, 2010
Last Updated on April 13, 2011
Tags: color, chroma, black, white, red, phobia, mania



Atco, NJ

Hello, my name is William and I'm a write-aholic. My first poem ever was written in January 2009, so I'm still pretty rough. Nothing is perfect, but I'm addicted to writing, and I do enjoy doing it.. more..

Lust Lust

A Poem by William

Asphyxia Asphyxia

A Poem by William

Related Writing

People who liked this story also liked..