How do I write my own story
How do I use these margins as a springboard
That will propel my words across the lines of this unmarked paper
How do I shape a mountain out of the scattered boulders littered across this flat terrain
How do I create the spark
That will ignite this dry kindling into a blazing bonfire
How do I stir these stagnant waters to motion
How do I begin to carve this block of stone into a statue
That will continue to speak my legacy after my voice has withered away to dust and ashes

Until now I have coloured within the boundaries printed on the pages set before me
I have created perfectly generic and acceptable images that have brought me praise for my ability
But they were not my own ideas
The outlines were slipped onto my desk by well-meaning adults simply doing their jobs
I believe it’s time I graduated to a blank canvas

I want my colours to blossom across every inch of the space I have
I want to dabble in fiery reds, deep blues, and ultimately rich purples
I want my purpose to be seen in the aim of my paintbrush
I want my worth to be felt in the warm glow of art
I don’t want my paint to fall in aimless splatters
I want to trace the silver lining that has gone ahead of me my whole life
A bright arrow leaving a glowing trail behind
Cutting like a knife through the darkness

But now I see that the seeds of a story have already been planted in my soul
All they need is rain and sunshine, care and time,
Before they will spread beautiful leaves
And reveal an intricate network of branches for all to see

he painted flourishing gardens
and stunning landscapes
using a palette of superb
colour drapes

in his homeland they toast
him with champagne
for his canvases hang
in their art gallery's lane

his works are worth
many millions of dollars
and they've been studied
by generations of scholars

of the impressionist style
was he
he had brush daubing
down to a tee

paint me a picture
if you possibly can
that will tell me
of this creative man

In nature
The colour black does not exist
Man himself invented it;
It pleased his eye
The density, its ability to swallow light,
Blacker than the blackest night
Darker than the darkest skin;
He made it evil
Made it sin
But always it attracted him,
The way it swallowed everything.

from sunsets to morning hazes,
we text from dawn to dusk and
set fire to time. we're lonely together.

it's three am and we're watching movies,
we talk more than anything and we laugh;
'baby, give me your heart ( aches ) '

high heels in my hands and smoke in the air,
we stumble through broken memories and
we set a flame the broken shards of hearts.

sunbathing on the pavement, bare skin
and hearts open wide. blue eyes on you,
you're my summertime sadness

Eight months ago a roll of expired film turned my whole world purple and I began speaking in rays of light instead of words.
And there I sat in amongst the thorny thistle mats of violet and green and silver-grey clouds
And I wondered how in this world of endless colour anyone could feel so overwhelmingly blue

But sometimes the blue absorbs you
Or you just seem to see the blue in all the other colours too
And it seeps into your purple world
And it seeps into your dreams and clings to your skin and seeps and clings and seeps

But blue has its place
Blue is beautiful, interesting, and full of soul and wonder
We have blue days just like we have purple days and orange days and gold

Sometimes we find someone or something that makes our blue days feel like spring
And together you sit back and admire the beauty in the blue

Or sometimes, most times, that person is you because at the end of the day you know your blue better than anyone else

So cut yourself some slack and love your blue

It’s just trying it’s best to be a colour and you’re just trying your best to be