I wish that I could write as beautiful as I want the world to be.
I wish that things were different
and that for a change, the grass would be greener
on my side of the fence.
But green is not my favourite colour.
I like blue.
There are some beautiful things that are blue
like the sky, and the ocean, and they’re the best coloured M&Ms
even though they all taste kind of the same.
I also like red.
Like roses, and the postbox on the corner down the street, and the big red buses in London.
Full to the brim with people who have so many unimaginable stories of their own
Yellow can be striking, too.
Like the centre of a daisy, and rubber ducks, and the sun.
Although I suppose that’s not really yellow, but it sure looks it from 150 million kilometres away.
But I feel blue when I’m sad,
and sometimes red when I’m mad,
and yellow when I’m scared I’ll never get the things I wish I had.
I picture myself sometimes, somewhere that’s breathtaking.
But every breath that I’m taking just seems like a chore
and I am running out of time to be the person that I wish I could be.
I like the good parts of the world:
The forests and the beaches and long forgotten side streets
and the vast open spaces in between all of that.
But it’s getting hard to see over these walls I have built for myself
and I don’t know if I’m going to put a roof on top yet,
just to stop the rain from hammering in on me.
It would probably leak anyway