Chalk Red

A poem about unconvention

My phone auto-corrected a phrase for me, Granted — it was mistakenly. I don’t even remember what it should have said, But it changed to the words: chalk red.

A ghostly white and this crimson blood, Juxtaposed, like fire and wood. But then I thought, why can’t they be? Why must convention be all that we see?

Let the moon pierce the daytime, Let the winter know the sun. I want gold glitter oceans, And a mountain undone.

I want a world where “normality,” Is no longer the norm. Why can’t pain feel much softer, And uncertainty feel warm?

This planet is full of oxymoron states, We’re married to strangers and fall in love on first dates. So why must reality be separate from our dream? Let’s just let things be what they don’t seem.