Orange is the colour of creativity.
Great globs of world-building galaxies.
Orange is the colour of spontaneity.
The gaiety of pitter-patter feet
upon cold cement.
Beaten path wannabes
freed from boxes made
by mainstream leader-bees.
Shouting loud about my insecurities
not yet blessed with that fabled maturity
blind surety guided my cradle.
I was born orange once upon a time,
grimy yet sublime. Able.
Labelled bad but beautiful.
Orange is teeming with possibility.
Futility nothing but a distant
Orange is daring and daunting
to those who’ve never known its freedom.
Beacons of hope to those who can see them.
Orange is nothing but a memory.
made to feel like make-believe reveries.
Orange is no longer sophisticated at my age
indicated by sideways glances, made to craft
So now I’ve turned green.
Blending in with society. Camouflaged
between sixteen and the grind-machine.
Green is the colour of success and accomplishment.
Competence at any rate. Is it fate?
Or an establishment-forced stalemate.
Green is calming and clear.
Here, no one feels uncomfortable.
I am no longer insufferable.
Green is understandable.
A security blanket made to feel valuable.
I am green because that’s what’s wanted of me.
A garden pea, identical to those next door, you see.
Easy, safe—one of those beaten path wannabes.
Green is the colour of envy.
Deadly if taken too seriously.
Deliriously gobbling up aplenty.
Until there is nothing left to give.
Forgive me of this forsaking.
It’s just that I miss being orange.
Eccentricity from my castle-building days,
misplaced by these adult ways.
For orange is the colour of my creativity.
Lindsay Brown is a writer who doesn't often dabble in poetry anymore but feels that the orange side of her, is pleasantly fed when she does. Feel free to check out more of Lindsay's work here.