This was like,, a vent poem? I kinda liked the way it turned out though, so I kind of just wanted to get it off my chest somewhere. Hope that’s okay !! [ I’ve been calling this Muted Pigments ]
I knew it was love, when I first noticed you, as you asked me about my favorite color. You wanted me to describe it vividly, and for some reason, I couldn’t find any words in my throat as I looked at your smile. I told you it was purple, light purple. You flashed your smile again, and I could only then think of the color of your cheeks. Or your eyes. I often find myself drawn to yellow. It is a vibrant color, and holds a warmth I’m not quite used to feeling in my chest. I think you’ve got a collection of yellow sweaters to make my blood stop in its tracks. Never have I seen someone look like the very sun that brings life to this planet. Maybe it’s not purple, maybe it’s a pastel yellow. After that day, you graced me with your presence several times. It was obvious that you wanted to start something. Of course, friendship is an alien concept to my dim mind, and silence seems to fit better into my vocal cords. So as I watched you speak into my hard, stone wall shell, I watched you slowly lose interest, too. Your aura turned from a bright yellow, to a cold blue. I can’t say that I blame you. I’ve been told more times than I can count, that I remind people of a mute. My tongue twists in hatred as I sit silently. I cannot show people differently if I’m too scared to. So I write ‘mute’ in bold black letters across my forehead, as if to give everyone around me a warning. A forethought. I was once told “You reflect what you believe.” And if believing I am nothing more than a snide conversation about that ‘quiet girl’ in math class, than I guess I’m reflecting a battle field. A blood red battle field of short answers, and judgmental stares. Trust me, and don’t take this lightly, social anxiety is no joke. I am no mute, I have simply silenced my voice. What is the point of wasting oxygen when your words float through the ceiling, no gravity in their syllables. I could waste a colorless apology, but I know that I could never be brave enough to let my words float into your ears. I see things in colors. Each voice has its own unique hue, wether it be a light purple, or a pastel yellow. My voice is grey. It has collected years of dust from sitting on my shelf of failures. I know, it’s not fair that I have done this to you. And I wish I could tell you that you deserved better than that. I’ve noticed lately that your yellow has turned dark, and sluggish. You’re beginning to look like a wilting flower. My words would mean nothing to you, but when I first saw you, my color palette changed. My grey hues turned to beautiful purples, and yellows, and maroons. You are a piece of art, your face holds thousands of colors that I could not dream of painting. It’s none of my business wether the hard times are weighing you down, or drowning you, but let me tell you something; when you sink, it’s just your paint brush being cleaned.