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Blonde fields burnished red
in the evening sun,
spindly tree branches
stretch out and creak
like old men’s bones,
and why does everything
seem so beautiful
from far away?
Mountains look like paintings
and people like perfection.
We can reach out
and almost grasp the beauty,
the unreality,
the imagined happiness
trapped inside the fresco of life.
I keep waiting
for something amazing
to happen,
some storybook moment
where I realize I’m happy
and I see it,
where I’m pointing,
on the horizon.
And I can get there
if I keep imagining.
Can I be in my thirties
and still not know
who I am?
Do those really together people
actually know who they are?
We tell little kids and teenagers
that they will understand one day
or that life gets better,
but it’s not better,
just different.
I don’t know if I’m happy
or in love
or successful.
Who defines those ideas anyway?
I just want crimson hills
and purple sunsets,
green trees
and cerulean oceans.
I want to feel the happy
everyone else does
but then I wonder
if they really do feel
what I imagine they do
or if we are all just masquerading
through life
hoping to run into right.


8 thoughts on “Colors

  1. This is a poem that makes you think. I love it. So much. It’s truly beautiful and I’ve wondered about the happiness of others, too. This poem is my favorite kind of beautiful; the kind that has a bittersweet feeling to it. The kind that gives you goosebumps and makes you just stare into space for a moment, thinking so deeply. You have a such a skill with writing, so never stop! I enjoy every single one of your poems. Thank you for your beautiful mind! πŸ™‚


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