December 17, 2009
So I wrote this poem
I called it “Color Blind”
And for some baseless reason
I’m not really sure it’s mine.
Just the other day
I transcribed a melody
A little lilting tune
That simply slipped right out, you see
Playing it on ebony and ivory
Pondering the irony
Of how something so familiar
Can sound so very strange.
If I look out a window
And tell you what I see
Like: “that dog has lots of polka dots,
And that tree is very green”;
Will you look out, in turn, and say:
“that tree’s a lovely shade of red,
And that dog has many stripes!”
To me?
I’ve always sort of wondered
If things I thought
Were thoughts indeed
Have they ever been thought before?
Or Am I TOTALLY unique?
Am I someone else’s idea?
A character in their fantastic, fictional piece?
If so, who’s writing this?
Is it them? Or is it me?

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