An ode of some sort
If there were two of me and I stood
upon myself, I still couldn't reach the top.
If I rolled over and over again, three times,
I'd just make it to the edge.
I'm way more colorful than you,
(and I check the "white" box).
You're mostly black, and the blotch of red
is such an eyesore. The beige is well...beige,
and that white line is a postscript.
Ties the whole piece together
Mr. Still thought, when he finished you.
Craning my neck, I stand looking
at you. Alone in a room, I can hear soft
echoing murmurs, *What does it mean?
What does it mean?*
You don't make sense. From top
to bottom, left to right. A displayed plane
of utter confusion.
Someone thinks you're beautiful.