Windows To The Soul: An Ode to Basquiat

Your eyes, they haunt me.

When everything else is still, flat, “Untitled”

Your eyes, they torture me.

It’s hard to distinguish the rest. I search for meaning, shapes, colors, Questions,

You’re a slave to your own system: a mere machine, but when I see them I can’t help but wonder: Does it hurt? to continue everyday with a smile on your face while you’re screaming- Blood Orange and Emerald Green bleeding- out of that box you call a heart.

Your eyes, they choke me.

They stare into the depths of my soul: I- decipher, transcribe,   divulge, Your pain.

Your eyes, they are me. And when everyone else glares through my window: I secrete, all-but the- Peach

Pink.

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