Sometimes I feel blue.
Sometimes I see red.
Sometimes I smell orange
Or eat yellow bananas
when I get out of bed.
Sometimes I'm green with envy.
I'm sure there's indigo and violet
Somewhere in there too.
But just because the only color you see
Is the color of your skin,
It doesn't mean you don't have
A rainbow within you.

Today I want to draw you
(Yes, I can draw you. It's all about starting.)

With the black pencil, I draw a cross on the white,
I cut the white, you're done, you're not white,
You would have been a bride dressed in white,
but you are not,
Then I wonder, what another colour,
I jump joyfully and choose the yellow pencil,

I draw your eyes with yellow, you start shouting at me,
The black cross is cutting the white of the paper
from one end to the other,
again, you are screaming out your lungs,
your screaming energizes the colour,
yellow comes out on the lips, on the nose,
it brightens the thickness of the eyes.

The room is full of golden light
fighting with monochromatic egotism.

Your yellow is absorbed in me,
I become a dandelion that draws you în autumn leaves,
jasmine, chrysanthemums, butterflies, bees,
all small insects invade the room, the paper,
my eyes enter your eyes.

You scream at me ”stop! it hurts”

Greedily I consume all the yellow from the sun,
You keep screaming at me  ”do not **** me in flowers”
I  get more excited
and I move with the joy of a child who discovered the pleasure of scribbling,

The yellow from the drawing grows your head big like an asteraceae,
I start seeing a smoky red, invasively yellow navigates towards red,
red is growing in an orange,

The orange rolls under the golden layer, it touches the cross.
The cross gives birth to multicoloured roads,
gardens and orange orchards are growing  from the desire to shape your face,

You stopped shouting. I sketch your profile.
With a husky voice, you ask me if I can draw an orange,
I draw an orange.
Tell me, who doesn't like oranges.

If Heaven does exist,
I wonder if a sun shines there.

It seems an awfully cold place to me,
locked away behind those pearly gates,
supported by clouds.

I wonder if so much whiteness is good
for the soul, for the eyes, for the mind—

surely, there is some sort of fire up above
to balance that below.

I wonder if I would know the difference
between the heat of His love
and the heat of what He has created.

If Heaven does indeed exist,
I hope it is orange and yellow and red.
I hope it is warm.

It is Fall.

Autumn sheds her golden sleeves,
skirts swishing softly

Her sunset stained fingers
slather the world in orange,
clean, crisp lines that capture the
crunch of leaves on canvas,
dabs of brooding blue,
bright, bold strokes for the brick-red
walls where the dormouse scampers.

art and wind;
Art, and wind.

do you hear the seasons
changing?

when the sun
kisses the sea orange,
my father comes home with sawdust
caked underneath his nails.
i remember how my mother
brushes them clean
until the water becomes yellowish,
like the sun.
That night, we will tuck ourselves in.
But i'll still be left at dusks.
wishing for that very same one,
where their worries would recede,
like the orange.
Where they will not have to think
about tomorrow
too much.

i pick an orange for my love
rough exterior hiding softer insides
the gentle curve, the sweet scent, the bright color
i peel an orange for my love
the rind falls to the floor like––
i hold it in my hands like i hold her heart
i eat an orange for my love
each segment curved like her sunshine smile
the juice dripping like––
my love is like an orange blossom
she blooms only for me

Dear Autumn,

Please take away all the pain I held over summers head. Dress up scars with pretty orange and yellow leaves. Leave me bare for winter, so I can be found again. In the city where acceptance is the only thing we have going for us. In my flashy, save neighborhood where I feel most myself. I walk over spines and skin fallen from trees and pretend I don't know, don't hear them begging to be heard. Begging to be found, before the season seals this grave.