Some people are blank canvases,
waiting for someone to create them,
waiting for someone to make them into something beautiful,
because they cannot find beauty in themselves.
They are the quiet ones;
the ones in the background allowing people to write all over them.
They get used and abused
and don't know how to say no.

Some people are graffiti walls.
They are the loud ones;
the ones under the spotlight waiting for people to see what they offer.
They can use and abuse,
and don't know when to stop.

But someone people are colored walls.
They show there true colors.
They can be bold red;
they can be haunted grey;
they can be lucky green;
they can be depressed blue;
sunshine yellow;
jolly orange;
mellow purple;
whimsical neon;
or pure white.
They are seen as 'lucky' because they seem to know exactly who they are.
But they are the unlucky ones.
They have no chances to become anything else.
They are who they are and have to live with that forever.

I am colored wall dreaming of becoming a blank canvas.

You told me your favorite color was orange at least three times, you loved everything about it. I never really liked it much, the fruit or the shade it was, it used to give me headaches. You said you loved the way it was part of the sunset, right before the sun hits the horizon and the colors start to blur, you loved the way it was everything all at once, and in my mind I thought, "just like you." I'd get married in an orange dress if I could spend the rest of my life with you, and I know it gives me headaches when I stare at it too long but you're like the orange sunset and I'd stare at you forever if you'd let me.

He discovered her in a world of grays and blacks.
She put forth the image of smiles and pinks, but held back
secrets, kept in the shadows,
which revealed an artist
trained in writing with silver.
And though she tried her hardest to create purples or the yellows of happiness
red was her medium
until he discovered her,
and ripped her tedium apart
with his sea of green.
He peeled back her layers:
     The false pinks used to fool the world
     Bright oranges, tools for when the pinks began to crack
     The black, forming an endless pool she was slowly drowning in
Until he found the blue
     Blue as the sky in which he made her feel like she was flying
     Blue from the effort of actually trying for once
     Blue as the sea where her soul now seemed to float
He peeled back her layers and showed her just how colorful
the world could be.

I knew the orange on the orange tree
you had an ache in your shoulders
uncomfortable in an unnatural way
yesterday I passed you talking to flowers
you hadn't moved you hadn't strayed
but hiding in the leaves was a forced disguise

the omens told me something quiet and unceasing
reminding me of a slumbering domesticated cat
dreaming of cutting yourself loose from truncated ease
dropping down from the branch with panther steps
licking fruit lips ripe with revealed acidic petals
riddled with a past you revelled mixing in with zest

shocking chances stepped in for the next dance
sleep taken aback by wings cut from a dark sky
the sidewalk pitted and cracked beneath the pounce
relief escaped the twigs with a spring like waking prey
pressing into night foliage shaken from a nice balance
as I saw you take control with nothing to mask your face

on the surface too smooth for violence
was laughter of glowing gloom to embarrass
and deter such rebellious arrogance
with a twist struggling from a lame curse
its flavours sharp against your sweetened perfume muscle
expecting you to build a limestone shed for tears
rather than take on the night with a mind to wrestle

the outside aches for your physical attraction
gaining courage from the purpose in your eyes
tense as the tightness of your dress' intention
demanding that my hands draw from such lines
the sinuous heat of pulsing flesh's invitation
curved upon seeds not chaste but not quite refined
which I try not loving with some cool disambiguation

you left me the taste of syrup of grenadine
too reputable to ripple vain red tipple eyed
on a table spilt with pink gin and mandarin
sharp teeth tingling a tartness into my hand
sliding slowly at a tilt like drops of sweat on skin
focus dwindling into the clasp of an escaping shade
wrapped carefully under soft rice paper and then
tucked under a heel with a pointed kick like a blade
only to feel you relent and burst open
soft in appeal again and again

You’re trying to find words
with a mouth full of saltwater
and i’m going to bed
with eyes full of sand

foggy dreams
thick with desire,
a compass
that always points north,

I’m going to swim
in a current so strong.

Red.
Like parting lips,
Shushed kisses.
Like high school varsity jackets.

Orange.
Like the shirt you wore
The day we met.
Like my least favorite color.

Yellow.
Like the lemonade,
So sour we spit it out.
Like summers we spent together.

Green.
Like minty gum,
Newly freshened mouths.
Like the grass I lost my innocence on.

Blue.
Like the pen I used
To write your love letters.
Like all the times we've cried.

Indigo.
Like bruises, covered
By jeans high on hips.
Like the nights we stained with lust.

Violet.
Like every single thought
Led back to you.  
Like even the spectrum had thoughts of you.

A favorite color, too bright for my eyes,  a
  favorite food.

A fruit left longing for a rhythm
   a rhyme.

Sit down and ***** with rinds under nails
  smelly.

Citrus acid and sweet juicyness drips down
   my hands.

Orange, the perfect color for me.
The odd one, the bright one.
Fire is orange and I have fire in me.
Orange is beautiful, I am too you see.
Orange always manages to stand out,
I too stand out,always wanting to fit in.
A tear tickles my chin,
as the thought of never to fit in
swims in my mind.
A friend is what I need,
a friend in orange I always find.
Because you see, orange is the color for me.
Nothing will ever rhyme with orange,
and nobody will ever choose me.

The world is just an old fat man.
Rolling in holy black sheets.
Old replayed talk radio-
And a nice warm cup of tea.
I drank my soda too fast.
I looked at her too long.
I said I'd see the world.
But without Her, I'm sure I'd see it wrong.
We used our hands as cups and plates.
We never wanted to sleep.
We stayed up until morning.
Busy bodied, watching T.V.
She painted her nails in the same color-
As the sky after a storm, where-
Orange and red, with swirls-
Twisted like her hair.
The world saw me love her.
It even led me by the hand.
And just because you miss me-
Doesn't mean I miss you back.