This heart needs a little more red
with a more melancholy shade of blue.
I've been staring at the canvas for hours,
trying to figure out what to do.
Because no one wants an imitation heart,
least of all you.
And I couldn't bear the shame of
faking myself for you.
What to do?
So many colors from which to choose,
Pinks, yellows, grassy greens,
all of them no use.
Not one of them can help me say,
what it is I want to say to you,
Of all this heart's been through;
it isn't new.
I've loads of colors from which to choose,
yet all I see is blue.
No I-love-you's,
just some sorry, sad truths,
Because this heart's been used
and painted too many shades of blue.
What's a painter,
what am I to do?
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Talk of colours, humours.
Melancholic, phlegmatic, choleric, sanguine...
A heart is one's own, to be shared if need be.
In commonality, there is warmth. Comfort.
And there is always the white-wash of denial. Or forgetting.
Even new canvases. Burying the dead, so that we may live. Though in this case, the ghosts are figurative.
I like the painter metaphor.
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For once, I read more of your own feelings in this than an analysis of mine. Hm. Hope things are going well in your white-washing.
But thanks. I liked it, too. -
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Nothing like being humbled to bring back a sense of humanity.
I've come away from it a better person.
Or maybe just coming back in focus. -
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A little of both, probably. Oh, and you need to read Dan Brown's "The Lost Symbol" ASAP, so I can ramble enthusiastically about all the cool concepts/ideas.
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Is it out yet...?
I haven't read it yet. You have a copy? -
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Yeah, I read it all last night. I think my mom's friend wanted to borrow it from me, though, so you might have to wait to borrow mine.
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