#37 - Poetry #6
Posted Thursday, December 17, 2015 // 1:07 AM
20/11/2015 — Friday.
i hand you a white blank canvas
to let you paint me with colours
the way you want to look at me
in the way that i will capture your attention
and be mesmerised by my beauty
that you have created all over me.
you splashed me with red,
to symbolise our fiery love.
you splashed me with blue,
to symbolise the calmness of our love,
you splashed me with black,
to symbolise our mysterious love.
what you painted was a beauty
but everyone said it was a mess
but my love towards you
was strong enough to shield
the talks from coming in
i should have listened to them
i should have seen it through their eyes
the soon you left.
the red becomes my anger;
the blue becomes my melancholia;
the black becomes my soul.
maybe that was what you were trying to preach
that i was the definition of a walking disaster
i thought i knew what the meaning behind all of the colours that you used.
but i don't.
that was my mistake for letting you build me
and i should have known right from the start
that the hand that stroke the paintbrush on the canvas,
will be the same hand that will burn me down in flames
when you have found another pretty picture
to look at other than me.
—L.D "red, blue, and black are not my favourite colours anymore.”
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