Neon.

I believe we are all born,

A blank canvas.

Throughout life,

Others make marks.

Splats and blotches of red hot rage.

Blue ripples like waves,

Marking depression as it rolls,

Crashes and rises into calm green.

Your soul is painted,

Maybe with the not so steady hand,

Of a drug addicted parent.

Or with the gentle care,

Of an older sibling.

Maybe someone took time,

And care while painting you,

But you are still covered,

In the sorrows of purple smears.

No matter how you became,

The beautiful portrait,

That walks about today,

You have the choice,

To wear your colours with pride,

Or hide in shame, 

For fear of what people may think.