as the song plays, a blue ball appears in front of him. he reaches out and grabs it with both hands. he squeezes it, and it's solidity is right in between clay and paint. it comes apart and is all over his hands, dripping but not falling. he lays his hand on his bed, and it doesn't rub off on or stick to the blanket. he goes to school the next day. people call him a depressed weirdo, don't go near him, he'll get his BLUE on you. he turns away and cries when he gets home.
as he draws the picture, a black ball appears in front of him. he reaches out and grabs it with one hand. he pulls it apart slowly with his other, watching it separate. it's right between a dead man's blood and his flesh in consistency. it stays on his hands. it feels like holding very wet clay, but it doesn't get on anything else. he shrugs and continues his drawing. it doesn't affect his art at all. people call him an emo freak, don't talk to her, she'll get her BLACK on you. it doesn't faze him, of course. he just goes home and cuts it away like usual. the red runs over the black -- it doesn't mix.
as she finishes her dance, a yellow ball appears in front of her. she reaches out with a finger and pokes it. it spreads onto her hand, and she laughs lightly. she touches it with her other hand. some of it runs onto that hand too. when she goes to talk to her friends after the recital, other people come talk to her too. they call her talented, be friends with her, she might get her YELLOW on you!
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryOccasionally, I write a poem that I'm actually not entirely ashamed of. I will post when I write them. I don't delete any poems, so there are definitely some awful ones from when I had lower standards. I suppose that means I've gotten better.
