Poetry

White Flowers

The hot and heaviness of the volcano, one little ice cube in the middle
How would anything feel in that situation? I can guess one word, useless
In that big confusing grey of a room
My face turns yellow, a light mustard with dirty black seeds
I stare at my yellow hands as they start to form
First they're soft and buttery
All of the sudden they are too soft, almost rigid enough to break if you pull hard enough
I'll tell you as much about me as I want you to know
Before we use the word age, we have to grow
Because white flowers don't immediately bloom
Turquoise, green and yellow too
I can dig without a word
You won't hear a spit or even a blurb
My feeling isn't a color anymore, it's too bright to see
Just because I didn't tell you, doesn't mean it wasn't meant to be