by Sydney Tayler Colbert
a special kind of green today.
Blue's just too wholesome,
too well known to fully translate all the things damned up inside me.
The mossy side of the trees understand me.
The sickly green of the peeling paint on the bathroom walls
can attest to the moldy feeling of sadness
cracking it's way up.
My throat is dry.
Eyes sitting on bags,
born before their time.
Seems like wind could always do the talking that I couldn't.
But today I find in it, only unfamiliarity.
So the bugs will tell my story today.
They say they're tired of being invisible.
Tired of being crushed and cratered into the rivets of the asphalt.
Tired of being bogged up in a shell that don't fit,
a lot where they don't belong,
a world that don't even have a sense of their existence.
The bugs today,
feel like dying.
Not like dying.
tired of living.
Our eyes roll over into the big bad sky,
pondering on things deep,
Things that only our spirits have the language equipped to tell.
If only a droplet of water would flick down onto the cheek of the earth,
echo our spirits' cries
so that God would know that we are here
and we are most immediately pathetic.