shades

I bought new shoes today
but one shoe came without
a black lace.
I happened to have
extra laces stowed away…
but they were grey.

As I write about my pickle,
A tickle touches the back of my throat.
I cough.

How alike are those words, the word
Coughing
And coffin.

If you have it bad enough,
you realize their correlation and how
hellish it is to have a cough that
Will
Not
Go away.

I just need to release it.
I need a release.
I write to release
To find my…
No… too obvious.

Sometimes, when i write
I teeter on the line of
deep thoughts to impress
and
so superficially simple,
the reader’s thoughts
would write the rest.

It’s this line,
This grey line.
It lines all my thoughts
It is literally literary Purgatory.
Hell is not fiery red
Hell is Not hot orange
Not saffron yellow.
Hell is insipid gray.

Even the word gray
Cannot be definite.
Grey,
Gray.

Creation takes decisions.
Creators make revisions
because they lack conviction in their visions.

Now even tying my shoes will
remind me
I am a dull poet.