Yellow, Cadmium, Aureolin, Lemon
It's the shades of your true nature.

Sheen, Spring Bud, Bitter Lime, Lime
It's the other side of you.

The day when I met you is Lemon,
Drowning me into the watery trap of yours
Lemon in Water, that's how you cast a spell on me.

Sour, it's the taste of waiting for you
Bitter, you left me rotten and lost
Sweet, it's when you smile to me
Refreshing, the reason why I look forward toward tomorrow
Plain, the black truth behind your kindness
Sour+Bitter, the days when I must forget about you

Lemon, Lime,
I got addicted to your freshness,

Lime, Lemon
You stir me up like a juice,

Lime
Those dream felt so real

Lemon
I should've known, that I never belong to you, ever.

I see you, now.
Anxious, thick-skinned man; and his
     jumped-up, bird-***** boy.
Wet feet sloshing on lazy floorboards,
     footprints of a ghost.
Devoted eyes, devoted hands,
     flecked with aureolin and azure.
Wild eyes, shaky hands,
     speckled with blood and dirt.
Why have you dragged him here to see me,
     yet again?

Ripe, bitter, sour and oh so sweet.
Dangling off of a Californian tree.
Living within peels so stringent and
containing cascading juices so pungent.
He leaves you wanting, aching to know more.
He lures you in with the irresistible sweetest of enchanting
songs and ballads.
But what you didn't know was, that the ending
melody left you in a note that made you feel as though
you were drowning in a sea of rotten,
forgotten, and lost once loved dreams.
You became addicted to his freshness,
to the zest of his scent.
You became seduced, captivated even.
You let yourself become vulnerable
and susceptible to his touch.
You slowly opened up your wounds.
You let your friable bandages flow free.
You even let him lead the grand dance.
You let him twirl and spin you to the point
of reaching a state of trance or reverie.
He took you on romantic evening picnics,
he brought you to the oldest of antique boutiques,
and he even painted you angelic
mosaics in oil.
Ones comparable to those grandiose and imposing
works' of the masters.
At last he casted you under his spell
and he enticed you once again.
He had the charm of a thousand
and he was spontaneous in all his ways.
He never failed to surprise you.
They say he had an oriental descent
and this would explain much.
But when you least expected it,
he touched your wounds.
You felt an unbearable pain,
and a strange surge flow through you.
It burned, to say the least.
You almost felt your incisions
blister under the effect of his acid.
His yellow and aureolin tint
seemed only to be a facade.
An illusion, a charade to the naked eye.
But in that moment you could see through it.
You looked at him with pain-struck eyes,
full of confusion and disappointment.
You couldn't really identify the look in his.
You realized that he really had nothing to do
with his cadmium yellowish golden tint.
You felt as though you were fainting.
You were sinking and all the sweet
memories you two shared, flooded your
sight.
But then he said, "look at your wounds"
and you did as he ordered.
You looked down and shook off the stupor
and came back to.
You looked at your wounds and
became staggered and managed a mere "thank you".
For your wounds were no longer swollen and irritated.
He had healed you.
So when life hands you lemons,
don't make lemonade.
No, instead care for those
misunderstood beings,
and tend to their needs.
Because the lemons in our lives
are all too prevalent and far too
misread.

I hear children laughing, shouts of joy,
leaves rustling with the breezes as a day
of summer begins its glow.

Warm days of happiness and shooting strands of
aureolin light with skies blue backdrop shimmering
bright. While breezes sing their songs of love, given
them from far above.

Painted with a sable brush, mornings refractions
colors of love beginning another summers day,
with the scent of a farmers fresh cut hay.

I see heat rising from the ground ripples of space
bending, wiggling up then down, as a kaleidoscope
of memories reveal days of summer long since past,
when naked feet walked through the grass.

Mocking birds of summer sing about lazy winters and
fruitful springs as summer days linger into night as dusks
orange, gray, and blue fades from sight.