Neat, orderly, within the boundaries
Just as it should be
A brush, heavy with paint
or perhaps a freshly sharpened pencil
move across the page with grace
Never crossing the bold, black lines
Colors where they belong
Blue sky, red roses, green trees
Seemingly perfect
But is anything ever perfect?
I used to believe life was like coloring a page
Fill in the blank, match the color to the number
Make it neat, make it perfect
That's what they tell you
That's how they think
But do you know what I think?
If my life were a page to color
the brush strokes would muddle together,
the pencil lines would cross the restrictive black ones
Nothing would be definable, everything bleeding through
With a green sky, a black rose, a pink tree
Ugly to them
But beautiful to me