AquaticBlueJay

The Narcissistic Chameleon by *AquaticBlueJay No, don't you look at me! That gaze, It's unsightly! Oh! and how you waddle on two feet, Hairy skin and oblong teeth! Fur synthetic,  Gait pathetic, Your hands unfurl with sweaty 'treats' ?! (What are you trying to feed me?) Then your ghastly whiskered mouth begins to speak, "Oooh look at thaaat", In the most uncivil and discomforting creak. As I change colours. Sadly my pride forbids me to pity, Nature cannot make us all pretty, So the adage goes. Oh Jealous Ape, avert your eyes from this creature! Within my splendid spectral world, You, human, are like a blister!

NOSTALGIA. The fading memory dwells in misty haze, Lost, yet present; Somewhere beyond the unknown, Cast in chance events. Somewhere, where we cannot go, There, it echoes; A kaleidoscopic lifetime; Soaking up our angst.

A flower in bloom in gloved hand, More than this world, Impossible to understand. By night, the moon's grace, Blood rushes to the surface, A desired touch is left to waste. Winter's charming flame, All is still and tame, Burnt and empty hands, Guilt and shame. A flower in bloom in hand, Much the same as the last. A flower in bloom in hand, Observe as it litters the heath. A flower in bloom in hand, Pleads colourfully for attention, Suddenly far easier to understand.

What Gives This World Colour -- Version français C'est quoi qui donne le monde son couleur? Les baies et les animaux, Les fleurs et la mer, La peau et les cheveux, C'est tout en couleur. Rien du tout ni mélancolie, ni folies, N'a pas la puissance pour prendre ni voler, Les couleurs de l'arc en ciel, Du monde réel. Les univers que se montrent dans nos têtes, Quand nos yeux se donnent bien l'aise et bien reste, Et nos coeurs se battrent lent pour battre fort nos corps, Il n'y aucun couleur qui dort. Encore un fois je considére, Une question fondamental si souvent négligé, Il faut donner une b

What gives a world it's colour? Berries and beasts, Thickets and reefs, Hair and skin, fill themselves with hue. No manner of misery nor madness, Can prise nor ratchet, The colours of the rainbow, From all that is. In the worlds seen in the mind, when our eyes give themselves good rest, And our hearts slow beat makes our body pulse, Our colours do not slumber. Once more I consider, This fundamental question so often overlooked, Here's to the One who discovers, What gives this world its colour.

Writer's Block What's left to say? There are words, but alls been said; Lips braced for great words to come, But its all been uttered by someone. What's left to say? There are tales, but alls been told, Mildly amusing all the same, Those predictable plots, time and again. What's left to say? Surely there is something!? So, What's left to say? There seems to be; nothing. By J.Bedeau