Not too hot,
not too cold,
I like purple
because it's bold.
It's royal, it's pure,
it's a daydream sky;
while purple and black take me back,
the watercolors dry.

I used to like blue
like typically boys do.
Calm, a primary color,
your favorite flavor, too.
I like the blue of jeans,
and the blue of a summer sky;
I like the blue of these little pills
that motivate me to try.
-But blue is too strong:
a frozen twilight leaves you bitter
as you march through the snow
protesting, but Mama didn't raise a quitter.
Plus blue comes in many shades -
indigo, teal, more than you'd believe -
and it's hard to think
while a crowd cheers for their favorite team.

My favorite team is red;
I see passion and pride
in this jersey I'll wear
long after I've already died.
I like red because its
shades grow richer
as you taste something
intoxicating like liquor;
the way it paints
those curves of desire
makes you wonder
if you'll ever get any higher.
-But I don't like red
because of his car and his truck,
and this blanket of mine
that he's never tucked.
And a sky dripping red
ignites a burning fear
like it's soaked in blood
and the Lord's tears.

So purple is mine,
and I cherish it like gold.
As violets bloom,
I see the truth like a secret untold.
Blue and red come together
and purple glory reigns;
I am a paintbrush
whose color never drains.

Death is an invitation;
it's a cycle that
makes a saint
from a snake,
though the venom still drips
from those pearly whites.

like the snow in a Michigan spring,
do we persist -
do we thaw,
or do we melt?

The apex of meaning
is found in the sweet of honey -
not the pursuit
of righteous gates;

like the green teasing from under the white,
there's always something more.

I know a girl.
Stunning.
She could **** and get away with it.
Imagine humanitys mother,
And then make her care a little more.

But she has a secret.
She thinks she can fix everyone,
But she cannot fix herself.

She thinks she is broken
Because life told her she was
It struck her down in her stride
And shes never been the same.

So shes singing herself the blues
But only by the sunrise of a new day
Another sleepless night
She does not want you to hear.

But if you listen closely you can hear her song.

In every word she speaks
In every look she gives
In every kind, loving gesture she makes
She hums her song

And it is beautiful
Though she does not know it.

Her song is the song of the broken
Of the ones who are brought to their knees
With nothing left to do but stay there and pray
Her song is the song of the valiant
Who do not look down at the ground
They look up at the sky
Undaunted. The world
Cannot hurt them.

Her song is her song.
And if you're lucky,
One day she'll sing it to you.
You'll know it when you hear it.

You think you're golden.

You're just a delicious lie wrapped in false promises.

And like the gratification of the taste,
Your pleasures are fickle and temporary.

You can fake the shine -
Polish the luster of your smile -
But any open eye can decipher what's real
And you're not.

You think you're golden
And you are.
Fool's gold always has value
As long as fools shall search.