Roses are red, violets are blue
Oranges can't be green and nothing can be new
Green reminds me of camo in countries we shouldn't be
Whilst red reminds me of my anxiety, escaping me
Why don't our boys in blue fairly opress white too
Without ever having to walk a full day in their shoes

If I could make a palette of my own colors and what they mean to me
every childhood art teacher would be out of a job
Blue would be the color of my pills I have to take to make
my rainbow array of emotions a choked out gray
Yellow would be the brick road leading to my cowardly lion and my anxiety smitten scarecrow

Roses are sometimes love, and sometimes they're a thorn
violets never ******* hesitate to remind me of loneliness and my conscious, well worn.

In my palette I'd release the choking hands around thine iris neck
and let it breathe its colors
but only so on the outside I seem fine. The true similarity between this rainbow and I, is that mixed together we both yield the same black.
But whom said black can't mean endless space and endless possibility?
Without my palette I would be nothing;
Per how dark nor how vibrant those colors behold

So roses can be purple and violets can be green
because in the end, it's the same black that they all mean