Today I seperated a blue and a black biro pen.
Why you ask? Do you care?...I suppose it might have been because they had fallen out over a beautiful pencil they had fallen in love with.
Pencils generally are whores by design with their temporary promises and ever changing moods, Unless you keep a pencil happy they will not care for you...never trust a pencil, they are liars.The biros in question I imagine may once have been freinds, maybe even lovers. Not that it matters, None of it matters now. A colour clash of blue and black swirls.
Nothing more than a dead memory, unimportant, and unecessary. I am happy now, I'll choose a red one.I will write my numbers and it will declare it's love for me... a writer, a user and a liar.
I despise it. I suppose it glows with arrogance and highlights my mistakes. It laughs at me, points and reveals my reality, I may be angry with it, but I do not tell...It would cry and spoil my numbers, my shapes and my colours. They are nothing to me and yet I am with them.
Maybe the shapes speak to me like none have ever before...I am scared, but the red must not see me cry. She will tell the other biros and prehaps I need them onside.
Prehaps I need their colours, their numbers and their shapes.
The numbers are warm, secure and inviting. Of course I do not understand them, nor will I ever try. What would I gain? I don't care and It's too ambitious. They move of course, Speaking their language, a delicious gobbledegook derived from their sanctuarys.
Today they are Hiding. Prehaps from me, prehaps from the biros and always from the highlighters. A rubber decodes the pencil's lies.
Prehaps highlighters are beautiful, but flawed. They make biros beautiful and speak far loudest of the stationary.
Alas they are but sidekicks. They are timid emotional vultures clinging to sour nourishment from every poisoned scrap of appreciation, praying and cursing for the chance to be biros. They will stay in the dark and wait for the numbers, For their chance to feed. Prehaps the shapes do not fear them and the coulour is their friend.
Prehaps I don't like them, Maybe I want a pencil.
I can already hear the red screaming. The highlighter will never know the pencil they exist in a different potentia. Ever touching, never meeting.
Yes...I suppose the shapes are talking to me, One day I will answer.
© Copyright 2016 Adamhatter. All rights reserved.
Book / Editorial and Opinion
Poem / Poetry
Book / Fantasy
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