Purple.
The color, warm, cold,
catching gazes like it’s gold.
Every time I look, I feel the need.
The need to.
To do what? I must, I should, I ought.
The feeling like it’s something,
someone I have already fought.
Living, lying.
Is it the same?
Every time, I immediately took the blame.
Hiding behind, hiding inside.
You could never find me in a lavender field this wide.
The option of expressionism,
the reason for creativity.
Still, we all find a reason to copy,
like it’s some sort of collectivity.
Warm, cold, it doesn’t matter.
I talk of the pain foolishly, it did just shatter.
Blank canvas, standing in front of everyone.
Blank canvas, standing in front of me.
Purple stains my fingers,
a mark I will not be able to wash away.
I wrote this while I was painting
