Blue
Blue is a different sort of color-a foreign feeling than the reds or oranges that adorn fall's trees. Autumn's hues are the beginning of the end, signifying the coming cold. Blue? Not so much. An all-together foreign texture, blue bellows through a solo saxophone and finds its way onto a bass clef, splattered ink the artist flung onto a darkened canvass out of frustration. An artist's broken heart can turn into purple haze inside his brain.
But we all grow up when we realize that Blue never never no clues for any of us to follow-stupid dog!-blue never does that. Blue points the sky with rain pellets on the most inconvenient of days, when my iPod should be announcing, "here comes the sun, but surprises me with "being on the rain" instead.
Blue betrays. Blue blinds. Blue balks. Blue balks his eyes out, making you stoop down, ask what's wrong, right before he makes you give up your walled , like come crip punk.
Blue-boo birds sing your song tonight, because you act like you don't care when the rain you cause falls from our eyes, and too many days, it does. We cry because blue buries a sense of hope we used to have before the red and orange leaves fell off of the trees and brought us to our knees in shame, because we were forced to wear blue like some hideous new garment someone convinced the Emperor to wear. Unaware are we when blue walks away-because by that time, the dye is cast, and whether sky, baby, navy, or powder, blue's effects remain-like a semi-permanent tattoo.
But we all grow up when we realize that Blue never never no clues for any of us to follow-stupid dog!-blue never does that. Blue points the sky with rain pellets on the most inconvenient of days, when my iPod should be announcing, "here comes the sun, but surprises me with "being on the rain" instead.
Blue betrays. Blue blinds. Blue balks. Blue balks his eyes out, making you stoop down, ask what's wrong, right before he makes you give up your walled , like come crip punk.
Blue-boo birds sing your song tonight, because you act like you don't care when the rain you cause falls from our eyes, and too many days, it does. We cry because blue buries a sense of hope we used to have before the red and orange leaves fell off of the trees and brought us to our knees in shame, because we were forced to wear blue like some hideous new garment someone convinced the Emperor to wear. Unaware are we when blue walks away-because by that time, the dye is cast, and whether sky, baby, navy, or powder, blue's effects remain-like a semi-permanent tattoo.