The Crayola Box of Glass

My glass crayola box filled with the crayons of my thoughts and feelings. Please don't bend them.

[michaeltcoe-blog]

The Universe in Your Veins #35 By: MICHÆL T. COE

[thecrayolaboxofglass]

To My Fellow Travelers

We all carve tunnels into life’s mountain of glass. 

If we look to our right we see a fellow traveler.

If we look to our left we see another, fellow traveler.

We all must traverse it’s hills just as we all must survive it’s holes.

Just know this my fellow being, your mustn't take this journey alone.

Just take a look to your left, or a look to your right

Because we are all within each others sight.

Hold out your hand, we’ll come together

And face the light at the end of this tunnel.

[thecrayolaboxofglass]

In My Arms You Used To Call...

We used to lay in a cotton bed of grass tracing the constellations

on the popcorn ceiling of stars.

But you have left me out here in the cold, void of dead suns.

In the depths of now unoccupied space.

I shiver in the place that you used to call,

‘your favorite space’.

[thecrayolaboxofglass]

The Cursor Blinks

The cursor blinks.

Ever patiently waiting for the next letter.

A featherless quill whose ink is just as black, just as bold.

The cursor blinks.

As quick as the tears fall.

It fills the pages like the water filling the pillows.

The cursor blinks.

Like a heart it beats faster when the words you love come forward.

Like a heart it beats. Slower. When the words are gone.

The cursor blinks.

It chokes on the words, struggling for a moment of air until it finally reaches the end. Period.

The cursor blinks.

Ever patiently awaiting,

For the next letter.

[thecrayolaboxofglass]

The Mother Who Left

There was a time when each chair was occupied.

Conversation was the main course and bedtime stories were dessert.

Now the dinners have become quite like the distance between stars.

Her absence leaves the collecting evening dust.

Only the crunch of food and the clash of knives dare to move the silence.

The family stares out through cracks in the ravine of chairs.

The table is a prairie where the lions feast on the question.

Where did mother go?

The children go to bed untucked.

Waiting for the good nights kiss.

The father became a wounded Atlas.

The weight of a hollow heart made into stone.

All because,

Of the mother who left.

[thecrayolaboxofglass]

My Life is a Song

It is written by my hand.

But conducted by another.

It is filled with notes of my hopes.

That lay on the lines of my demise.

My veins became a flute. Hollowed twigs with holes.

Where only dry air flows.

Forced through by blistered lips.

My skin become a harp of ice.

with strings made of frost.

Caring hands phased right through.

The violins were my cry's.

It is the solo in which I live.

The solo in which no one came to listen.

My heart was the bass.

A rumbling in the chest. A deepening passion.

It was the instrument no one came to play.

My life was a song.

A symphony of silence.

In an orchestra of violence.

-Grif otaged

[thecrayolaboxofglass]

The Crayola Box of Glass

The mind.

It is a closet in our head

We speak through the keyhole

And listen through the wood.

Every idea is like a piano with keys made of stars.

Some are bright

While others are dark like a black hole.

Growing as it feeds on the light

Until it collapses,

And dies.

The mind.

It is a blank slate.

A beach waiting for the next emotional ocean to wash on the shore of our thoughts

And then drag us out. Drowning us

in choices.

in feelings.

in morals.

in stigmas.

in.

it drowns us

in.

The mind.

It is a Crayola box made of glass.

Illuminated by a spectrum of sun's.

Its rays are warm as of passion.

Its shadows are cold as of sorrow.

It is an artificial nocturne.

-Grif otaged