Perception
You're sure roses are red?
That's just one point of view
Because what I see as ruby
Looks emerald to you
What you might call green
In it's variable hues
All looks the same
Until it strays toward blues
To cries of 'misrepresentation!
Flowers labelled askew!'
Well, to me there's no difference
Between violet and blue.
I've learned to adapt
I do fine, I make do
But I don't believe all that I see
To be true.
My Diary is an Open Book
People write the most astonishing things in their own company
ripe with scandalous revelation and succulent detail
only to feel they are being highly cryptic souls even as they
spill their secrets as they spill sensuous decadence and wine
every droplet a downright delectable debauchery.
Analytical
Pass me that pen; I'm going to pour myself onto this page.
Red and black, blood and ink
(Observe that words can't distinguish between the two)
make up the anatomy of a poem. They ebb, they flow, and -- along with
Sorrow, solace, sarcasm, and sympathy --
Encase themselves in eternal truths.