I've always been complimented on my work,
My writing and my intelligence,
They are the things which I am known for,
But they aren't all of me,
People are shocked when I introduce another part of me,
And I don't understand,
Any of it really,
Writing is a pass time,
Yet, again and again,
I'm told how good I am,
But when we analyse others work and they ask me how it makes me feel,
I don't understand,
Why they dig this deep,
Its a wonderful piece of art,
But I don't see a deeper meaning,
Everybody else is a straight black line,
And among them I'm a stark red line,
Nothing more nothing less,
There is no deeper metaphor,
Just that in this world of grey and blurred lines,
I see black and white.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryFree verse poetry which I started writing because I came up with two really good lines and then expanded on.
