I slowly peel the artificial hues from my body,
the layers of deceit that cover my eyes and
dabble with my memory.
The first to go is that of an emerald tint.
The jealous mask that encapsulates my body,
withering away, as do the grass clippings in mid-summer.
Next I will peel the blue hue from my eyes.
I unveil dark almonds, leveled with perspective.
Their sorrow will seep back into the deepest waters.
Third, I exclude the mad reds.
They obey my empty orders, their drive is weak.
Their eruptions are replaced with cold peddles.
The last color I dissolve is yellow,
for yellow encompasses a coward, which I am not.
It drizzles back through the meek holes it originated from.
Here I stand,
my stark, white body illuminated.
A fresh pallet, a new start.
I will only paint with colors familiar to me, and
only let imperfect others paint with my hues.
I catch myself listening to the brush strokes of others,
but the truest filter I possess is my own brush.