You. It is the color of Dad's last warm pants before we shift his spiritless body into a vault of the dead. There are no ashes to ashes, no rain. Yet we will and we scream and we nightmare together. There's white sunshine over my heart and memories of my sister's tea cutting my fist before it falls out. It is the color of soft boiled eggs with ramen or rice tamage kakegohan. There is no noise in the padded room of my mind
Cheyonia Wade
@CheyĀ Ā·Ā 0:30
It. I like this one. I love the imagery to the poem. The white room. The imagery mixed with the poem. It definitely gives you that cold, steel, empty room type feeling it. Yeah
Erica Jean
@HeyItsEricaĀ Ā·Ā 0:17
Thank you so much, Chey, for your input. I really appreciate it. This one did take some thought for me, but I'm glad I was able to express it creatively. So thank you so, so much