The world is grey,
The sky is white,
The clouds are black
I think of night.
In the morning there'll be color,
Making life a little less duller,
But all these colors are filtered,
They make me go crazy, bewildered.
They don't show what's real,
They only show what they feel,
And while my comfort they try to steal,
I refuse to surrender to them and kneel.
If I find true colors one day,
I'll wear them upon my clothes and say:
Don't touch me, I'm wet paint.
I'll be bleeding color,
Leaving color-puddles behind,
Giving off colors of every kind.
And until I die,
And my paintbrush-body is old and dry,
I only hope for a colored sky,
Where bluebirds and lost balloons fly,
Reflected on by the world I left behind with dye.
YOU ARE READING
Stained Hearts
PoetryMy first book of poetry, consisting of prose poetry and rhymes. Just a collection of thoughts and experiences translated into whimsical poetry, made specifically for your poetic appetite. Mostly I write about nature, time, a bit of love and...
