My closet is full of blue, with a few olive greens thrown in for contrast,
but my favorite color is orange.
Not the florescent kind
but peachy orange of a sunset in winter
Orange that streaks the skies
Like the orchids that streaks my hand with their pollen.
Orchid that leaves its sweet floral scent on my hands
Like my perfume gently leaves its lavender and roses on my neck
Waiting for someone to notice its subtlety
My handwriting curves to the left-
Unusual they say.
I like it
It flows like the path
Under my blue Mizunos
or the rain on the windshield of my jeep,
While I sing alone
Because no one else will listen.
There is beauty in things
We do not understand.
Axons and dendrites
The unseen yellow of electrical connections
Unlimited thoughts that race through
My head as it spins
While I try to sleep.
They always use these words
No these are never my words
These are someone else’s words
Those words are reserved for someone who’s
Out on a Friday
Not sitting taking care of someone’s children
or doing AP Physics homework
But to me its okay
I am proud of my words
Crimson bitter words
Meaning more than
Words that imply
More than intensity
Words have definitions
But also connotations
And my future is what people think
But is not written