They painted me pink
Where they painted you blue.
Cue the laughter when you sketched butterflies in art without a hint of irony
And brought crimson to their teardrop-wings with such an air of piety
I wanted to ask if you did chess pieces too
But we were both too quiet then for anything to happen.
Then you buried your wings
And head in the sand
Traded your brush for a ball
you fell from my hand
I see you sometimes, a blur on the field
And I wonder:
What's beautiful about you now
That you love turf more than paint?
Did I only like you for those times
When you jumped off the assembly line?
Did I mistake your broken whirring
For your clockwork-heart?
Or did the washing machine of life break you
Then build a paradigm from your parts?
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A/N: I hope that if you're reading this, you know it's addressed to you.
YOU ARE READING
Anarchy
PoetryAnarchy. A swirl of topics: emotions, allusions to history, social issues... And somewhere in the maelstrom comes forth rhymes and prose. Note: If you can't be bothered to read all the poems (quite understandably), I've starred the better ones.
