A moonlight skinned mother
A father with midnight hue
Born from a good evening
Life is black and white
Piano keys, press down, symphonies
Tones blend as emotions mix up
It’s a coalition with synchrony
Entwined complexions made me
Gorgeous gray: a color without color
A metallic man surfing the silver lining
Titanium toes on pavement roads
Read my graphite lead spread
My elephant trunk truth
Wisdom dances in my aging hair
My aluminum moment of reflection
Clouds pour out tears of joy
Goodness, gray, gracious
I’m blushed in shades of balance
Without predispositions of culture
Loud enough to be heard
Generously soft to listen
As the Mother of Pearl carries a moonlike replica
Covered by slates of nightly cast
Reminded, I’m part of the spectrum
About the Creator
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Where there's Art there's Heart
Here's a stupid thing: I adore art, but I start to panic whenever I step into a gallery. In the one place I should be at my contented best - surrounded by walls teeming with creative expression - I fall apart. What ought to be an enriching experience, tacitly designed to facilitate the exploration of human empathy and perspective, is for me an overwhelming purgatory of anxiety that compresses me to the point I cannot breathe. At the same time, I experience a sense of extraction, as though my head is being prized open to create a hole so big my sanity could evaporate. Somewhere between these two opposing forces of vice and vortex, I feel myself dissolving in a stream of panic that makes me want to cry; and I feel so daft feeling this way, that all I want to do is run for the hills.
By Caroline Janea day ago in Humans
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