I am a semi-colon in the perfectly authoured novel of humanity.
Surrounded by perfect people, living perfect lives, never knowing strife.
In the arms of who they love, free to dream,
Not a thought to someone for whom true love IS a dream.
Unknown to them, your dad can be ripped from you at age ten.
The one who put the can in you,
Dies of cancer.
You are so young, your story's just begun.
Not a thought of all the things he didn't, won't get to see.
Blind to how cruel, mean the world can be.
They write on pages of pure white, then there's mine.
Drenched in color, drenched in struggle.
Daily battles, paint splatters.
Losing you was light blue, just like your eyes.
People don't realize how important colors can be.
Anxiety disorder, that's evergreen to me.
Losing courage, that's orange.
Fear of the uknown, that's yellow.
Depression is grey, no sun can penitrate.
Worry is black, a constant base running through me.
I am a semi-colon, same sentence new direction.
"Why? they ask me from their throne,
"Aren't you tired; aren't you done?"
"Because," I reply,
"Despite everything that's happened, I can still hold a pen."
For the mountains I've climbed, I'll write in misty white.
For the goals and dreams I hope to reach, I'll write in peach.
For true friends found,
Angelique, Haley, Emma, Rachel,
I'll write their names in purple.
For my parents and grandparents, my rocks, I'll write in gold.
For love shown to me, though not by a man, I'll write in red.
For a life laced with blessings, hidden but now seen, I'll write in the boldest of lime green.
Not everything in my life has gone right.
But I'll continue to write.
My pages aren't pure white,
But a page drenched in color is a lot prettier.