Papersketches: Nothing

To not be,

Be not the essence,

Which in once is not,

Remains nothing:

I often wonder,

Beyond the taste of blue and the feeling of sound,

If such gifts of mine to see,

Are indeed as special as they are said;

What of it if I say,

That I can hear the shades of orange and blue,

That music defined by me can feel 'cold' or 'warm',

That I can smell an emotion rather than simply feel it?

Alas most of these odd abilities are deemed,

Weird, unusual, mentally unstable even,

yet a term like 'special' or to call them a gift,

Are lighter forms which some use to say so;

I babble in my solitude,

My thoughts bloom to and fro,

Sinking into the strings of my grinding wheels unrest,

Twas not always so;

Could the palate of the colors be,

Indeed such a distant thing?

One can say 'Kiss the sky' and be called a poet,

Yet I say 'I hear the green of the grass' and sound insane;

Let not my words fall on deaf ears,

Which cry at night in endless loops of thought,

Wishing to be understood and heard by many,

But none lie there beside me to listen;

I hurt in the sight of the loud dark,

Which I feel warm around me so,

Lying upon my back to sleep,

My wishes become cold and slow;

Alas I spoke my mind to see,

Should any understand or comprehend,

My ability to look across the faces,

And feel their unfamiliar emotions;

Identify you by the scent of you,

And to write music by ears of physical sound,

To feel a song until it is done,

To write a true story with unknown notes;

So, I often wonder,

Beyond the taste of blue and the feeling of sound,

If such gifts of mine to see,

Are indeed as special as they are said;

e love: