I change my colors every day.
From a morose and gloomy orange to a silver shining gray.
A chameleon is what I am, indelible.
I was born to alter, somewhat unhealable.
The colors adjust to everyone’s care.
In the morning sunset, I match the goldish orange air.
Blending into the fauna and flora,
My shades not too bright, so I blend seamlessly with the Roman aurora.
Trying not to try too hard,
So I can’t be harassed by the rest of the yard.
At midnight I relocate,
Even if it is oh so late.
While walking, my skin changes,
Which means it’s the moon that ranges.
From a soft orange to a glowing shade of gray —
It’s my shame that I convey.
It’s my dishonor that holds me back from being the brightest peony in the flowerbed.
It’s my own thorns from which every day I bled.
My own fault, because peonies don’t have thorns.
The other florals always have something that adorns.
At least it seems that way.
But they only ever saw the light of day.
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 2:25 PM UTC
Purple.
The color, warm, cold,
catching gazes like it’s gold.
Every time I look, I feel the need.
The need to.
To do what? I must, I should, I ought.
The feeling like it’s something,
someone I have already fought.
Living, lying.
Is it the same?
Every time, I immediately took the blame.
Hiding behind, hiding inside.
You could never find me in a lavender field this wide.
The option of expressionism,
the reason for creativity.
Still, we all find a reason to copy,
like it’s some sort of collectivity.
Warm, cold, it doesn’t matter.
I talk of the pain foolishly, it did just shatter.
Blank canvas, standing in front of everyone.
Blank canvas, standing in front of me.
Purple stains my fingers,
a mark I will not be able to wash away.
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 2:22 PM UTC