When was the last time someone asked you your favourite colour?
I’ll bet it’s the last time you felt free.
You see, colour is reserved for the innocent.
Exclusive to children, the naïve, and the dissident.
A concept corrupted by age.
The hues of life fade as soon as hair starts to grow in new places.
Tunnel vision replaces the wavelengths once found on a spectrum.
Just like that, we switch to automatic,
a blindness to colour so idiosyncratic.
Now I get why they say ‘it’s dog eat dog’.
No shades, no pigment,
it’s all just a figment of what could have been
between opposing extremes.
Pick wisely, there’s no going back
in a world tinted black
In a world left or right.
Are we getting it right when all that is left is rigidity?
No sexual fluidity.
No gender inclusivity.
No grey areas or pronouncing pronouns.
No beauty in the eye of the beholder.
For as we grow older, so does the power to decide
or even take pride
in showing our own true colours.
So, next time you wonder why I'm up in my treehouse,
my glasses tinted rose
the real question to pose is
When was the last time you asked someone their favourite colour?
Welcome to Readership:me. Get in losers, we're going to the darkest parts of my brain.
Writing poetry or, let's be honest, scribbling down rants that rhyme, has always been an outlet for me. Think therapy, except it's free, the advice is sparse, and the sole readership is, well, me. Then I got to thinking: if I need this outlet, maybe somebody else does as well. Here's an attempt to put a smile on someone's face, provide a lightbulb moment, or maybe even help someone to face their demons, whilst simultaneously helping me to face my own (we've all got 'em hun...thank youuuu humankind xx).