Blue.
The sky is blue.
The sky has planes, or birds, or stars, or clouds in it.
The sky is blue, but not always.
Sometimes it has red, or pink, or black, or purple, and all the colors in between that we don't have names for yet.
Names are a funny thing.
They define "you."
But "you" is not "them," those with the same name as you.
It is the same, yet unique.
Being same is boring.
If you're the same and blend into the crowd,
"You" cease to be "you."
"You" becomes the crowd, and you lose what makes "you," "you."
When you blend into the crowd, it makes it harder to find "you," both for yourself and the people looking for the true "you."
People are always searching.
For a person, a phone, a constellation, a horoscope, a wallet, a book, a job, a religion, a life, a party, a bar, a game, a word, a phrase.
You came here looking for something, didn't you?
You found me.
My poems.
But "you" can't see "me."
Perhaps I should tell "you" about "me?"
Well, I have blue eyes.
Just like the sky.
Sometimes.
YOU ARE READING
Purposeful Poetry Without the Purpose
RandomWhen reading my poems, one might think, 'this guy is insane...' Well, worry not, because I'm NOT crazy, I'm just a poet! ....which pretty much means being a bit kooky is in the job description. Where was I going with this again? Ah, forget it, just...
