I’ve talked once before

about my red’s and blue’s,

how my moods often mix

both these beautiful hues.

Yet in hindsight I see

more than aesthetic shades,

and know I live behind

both of these masquerades:

My bedroom has been blue

since I came to this land,

rather shy and marked by

futures I didn’t plan.

But my blue writes my poems

and puts me to sleep.

She is there through it all,

in the veins I stain deep.

But red is the martyr

who then saves the day,

and says blue is too shy

to have things run her way.

She is loud, she is proud,

and the critics confer;

Every face in this land

could fall in love with her.

And I wish to be violet,

but they always fight.

Telling me it’s not me,

and that shade isn’t right.

Either I can write tales

of futures crystal clear,

or talk effortlessly to a boy

who is so, so near…

Perhaps this is my chance,

in this time and this place,

to fall head over heels

with a sky smile on my face.

I have shown you each side,

how they fight and they fray.

And though it doesn’t matter…

I hope that you stay.

Portrait 12


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