My Soul

When I was thrust unto the world,

My soul was white.

Or maybe a pure eggshell;

A blank canvas upon which

I would create my masterpiece.

I began to grow;

My soul became a yellow

Tainted with flecks of black.

Afternoons spent playing with my neighbours,

Blemished by the fear of my father at night.

My soul gradually became red,

A deep rage welling inside of me.

I’d like to say that the rage

Has subsided with time;

I’d be lying.

Eventually my soul became

A deep blue.

Years spent playing games,

Yearning for distraction;

Disappointing my mother all the meanwhile.

Then my soul became black,

The sadness inside me

Winning the war.

Many nights were spent

Listlessly wandering toward train tracks.

This continued for years,

Questioning my authenticity,

My ability to be human.

I never saw the irony

In asking in the first place.

Then I began to change, slowly:

A blink of laughter,

A hand held.

Splashes of cream

On a monochrome canvas.

The fog began to lift,

And I began to like

Looking in the mirror.

The hole in my art was

Slowly restitching itself.

Then I met you,

My heart locked in a dance

That you never began.

I still dream about you;

Your mind flourishes elsewhere.

My palette became

Shades of green.

It’s impossible to paint

When all your brushes

Are dipped in the same ink.

Though you dominated my mind

I moved on otherwise.

But meeting new people

Became difficult when

All I’d talk about was you.

Given time, though,

You began to fade away.

Like an imprint on a window

You’d softly resurface

Only when it was cold outside.

The greens began to wane,

Replaced by an orange.

I’d like to think that the orange

Represents me wholly;

I’d be lying.

Amongst the patches of orange

There’s splotches of purple.

Not quite happy,

Not quite sad;

A welcoming melancholy.

I felt the melancholy strongly

When I told my mother

About who I kiss,

What I wear and

Who I lust for.

Her sickness shocked me,

A slap in the face

Against the man I am.

I began to ask questions

That could never be answered.

The purple was evoked

Briefly before being

Swallowed by the orange again.

My own judgement

Was all that mattered.

When I was younger,

I used to idolise those

Older than me;

They were wiser,

Their easels were filled.

One day I was older;

I realised that we’re

All still painting.

I hope the rest of my

Canvas is pretty.