Painting the Town

By Krystal Black

Painting the Town contains a small collection of poetry and short stories. Some pieces are written in a bit of a dark perspective. You'll find that the short stories are written with little to no character description. That was an intentional feature to allow the reader to imagine their own version of the character in the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640275386

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Painting the Town

Krystal Black

Copyright © 2017 Krystal Black

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-64027-537-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64027-538-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to:

My beloved grandmother

(1930-2017)

You are dearly missed.

Being a Creator

Creation—

It’s a lot of fun.

I myself am a creator.

What is a creator, exactly?

Simply put,

It is a person who creates things.

Most would associate this word with a being of higher power.

Personally,

I’m not one to be involved with things like that;

However,

I am a creator nonetheless.

How? you may ask.

Why, just look at the definition of creator.

I am a person who creates things.

I create pieces of writing.

I create characters with description and personality.

Anyone can be a creator.

Carpenters are creators.

They create homes.

All it takes is a little imagination.

Where does imagination come from?

It comes from inside you.

Your brain, as a human being,

It’s a powerful thing.

I’m almost positive,

If you tried,

You can become

A creator too.

Ashes

I’ve ignited a fire

Burning our existence

Collecting its ashes

I will create

A better world

With its ashes

A world where

Stereotypes don’t exist

Labels cannot be spoken

A world in which

We accept differences

Focusing on our similarities

Sounds amazing, doesn’t it

If only a world like that

Could actually be created

Rainstorms

Sitting inside

I can hear the harmonious melodies of the falling rain

The sound of it calls to me

Like a serene siren song luring sailors in

I make my way out into the natural showers

Standing under the rainstorm

I feel my soul being cleansed

Most would shield themselves from it

I welcome the immersive saturation

Bringing a new dawn to my body

I relish the baptism

Sorrow’s Sour Notes of a Lullaby

Hidden silence, penetrating my softened outer shell, on the verge of cracking. Save me from myself. I’m too far beyond the status of broken. Haunted, I cringe, your icy touch burning, a flare of snow boiling through my frozen blood. I feel that not even a padded room can ever save me. I feel only the security from writing with my own blood. I feel the safety of a loaded gun and the slug of lead piercing my skull, ripping my brain, and bursting through the other side. Therapy, not even available to alleviate this. Who knows what to call it? I turn to music, my escape, my rebellion, my … comforting asylum.

Listen closely. My screams are there—deafened, but still there—disconnected. The reason why the screams are muted. Lonely, I have become, nerves threatening to become shot once again. Sharply, I have knives ripping through, mutilating everything I’ve ever known, leaving me with nothing. My heart, go ahead and try; it can’t be brought back. My soul, yeah, good luck with finding it. It checked out several years ago. This, all this writing, this is what happens, an overemotional girl who’s not on her period, if you are wondering. Thinks and suffers. Crying alone, feeling like a burden, lying to save everyone, resulting in killing herself in the process. No hope for her.

People claim to be there to lean on, but what happens when there’s no one there? Living this way is never healthy, but it’s all I’ve ever known. Am I an angel, or am I a demon? No, I’m neither. I’m human. As much as I want to deny it, I can’t avoid that fact. Embrace the flaws I have, embrace who I really am, even though I don’t know what it may be. Look beyond the outside, heading straight for me inside. Chase the real thing, not the mask I wear.

Painting the Town

When I am in a neon pink mood, I feel the child in me come back to life. The emotions, the stupid little things I’ve done, they flood back to me, and it feels as if I were a small kitten learning how to be a full-grown cat again.

Purple is the color of my royal eyes, the ones that are kind. Compassionate, loving—the characteristics of a great ruler, or at least what should be.

Green is the color of envy, but am I the one with a green tint in my vision, or is there a soft, illuminating glow outlining the specimen around me? Am I envious, or am I sensing the jealousy of those around me?

Crystal blue, the soft color of my aching sorrow. Gently caressing my face as it streams down. So crystal blue, as soft as it is, it’s nearly invisible.

White, the color of my innocence. Pure white are my wings, that they may soon become soiled; only by an intoxicating influence would they become spoiled without my consent.

Red, the color of my rage. The crimson color of blood, it boils in my veins. Steam heats my body, about to blow like a teakettle on a stove.

Yellow, the color of light, a small candlelight. Illuminates my path only slightly when I wander around in the dark. Whatever my flare doesn’t light up is what I must brave.

Black, the color of an eclipse of illumination. The lost road I face, no light. All hope is gone, forever afraid.

The rainbow, to me, it’s a bridge, not a sign of what God has intended it to be. I see it as a bridge to brighter days even