Talking Walls
By Bipolar Poet
Gold in your eyes
black immorals leave you blind
| Immortal pain, forever will they cry
as you try to decide of all the written
messages on the wall, you want to reply
| You’re like a worker of the night,
living in the city heights, trying to get high
Success gives you a fright; you couldn’t see yourself
well in all those bright lights
| Grinding at work, grinding with a girl afterwards
on a wall. Your job is to answer customer’s call,
And you also had this pretty girl on call; and you
two did some damage to the wall
| Trying to patch it up, like you tried with an ex
you got drunk a little extra, in an empty bathtub
shower, sending her drunk texts
She thought you were just looking for sex,
you threw your phone at the wall—it made a mess
She obviously could smell your intentions with the
alcohol under your breath
| So you screamed at the wall,
“I hate you, I hate you all,” as always to that wall
But it wasn’t the people you were referring to at all
it was just at all your personalities, that you only know
New friends started knocking on the bathroom door,
people you never knew at all. They found you bouncing
your anger on the wall, bawling your eyes out on the floor
| You used to have such good conversations with
the walls; listening to you intentionally
You filled them with your punches whenever you
felt empty. Did so, so plenty and affectionately,
as those walls could credit your pain, with great credibility
| Yours was an unmatched ability
to tell a good story to an inanimate object so brilliantly
Wilfully, cutting yourself so short equally,
as time kissed you on your spine secretly, to pull you
back in time- minutely, to reminisce on that girl Tiffany
| She was a blonde; only by her kind of dye
she looked straight through you; only by
that black eyeliner on her pretty eyes
She made you seem a sweet tooth addict; only
by the many times you tasted her cherry pie
A cherished walk by; she was sort of bi- buying
your heart both in and out.
The number of times you told her, “I love you,”
you’d probably lose count
| Now you just have that wall of where you
first kissed
Where you first embraced, and she accepted you
with your random lisp
Sharing your clothes of your blue collar salary,
making sure it came back ironed so crisp
Supersoaker eyes after— the only catch you had,
after a long time you had fished
| In two deep, but all you have are these walls;
they won’t talk back to you. But they talk about
your ex girl. Damn, damn, damn these talking walls
