Colouring Book

If only there was no such thing as suicide
and we all lived inside a child’s colouring book
I’d trade all my worldly possessions
for a glimpse at the lemon-yellow sun

Roses in an untidy scrawl much bigger than me
still more beautiful than what I was told today
My crayon footsteps can never decay
yet the thought of a razorblade never dies

I want to float on the ocean of the sky
instead of gathering dust in this scribbled Hell
Horses and dogs run through these felt-tip fields
where the concept of ‘hurt’ doesn’t even exist

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed