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literature
Red yellow blue green...
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Literature Text
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Suppose I say to you: we clutch at colour with untidy desperation,
sitting black-and-white at the coffee shop at the
same marked page (oh let me tell you the things we think are real)
waiting for someone to turn our world around. Oh let
me tell you the largeness of these wings of ours; we only
think we can't fly. Suppose
an old man winks at your silence, do you blush or turn away? If
he is small with rosy cheeks and a nice smile you laugh,
but if he is clumsy and worn with time you
don't give him that chance. He could have told you about
children and the shapes of clouds if you let him.
Suppose perhaps the woman next in line clutches her change purse with
a kind of understanding, smells like stale perfume and
the brightest shade of lipstick (oh we compensate for things
we can't control. I refuse to ever apologise for my wrinkles or my
sagging cheeks. You can accept my lips in all their unpainted glory
when I'm old.) She'll count you
pennies like gypsy coins and do you take her for
her trying or roll her eyes? She will leave
and be alone and clutch her change purse with something
you don't really understand at all.
Suppose of all this, we're still waiting, dry cappiccinos and
dried daisies in our pockets (there was spring once, I remember the
smell of it.) Suppose I say to you: open your eyes, lovely,
there were rainbows flashing by that you just didn't see.
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Suppose I say to you: we clutch at colour with untidy desperation,
sitting black-and-white at the coffee shop at the
same marked page (oh let me tell you the things we think are real)
waiting for someone to turn our world around. Oh let
me tell you the largeness of these wings of ours; we only
think we can't fly. Suppose
an old man winks at your silence, do you blush or turn away? If
he is small with rosy cheeks and a nice smile you laugh,
but if he is clumsy and worn with time you
don't give him that chance. He could have told you about
children and the shapes of clouds if you let him.
Suppose perhaps the woman next in line clutches her change purse with
a kind of understanding, smells like stale perfume and
the brightest shade of lipstick (oh we compensate for things
we can't control. I refuse to ever apologise for my wrinkles or my
sagging cheeks. You can accept my lips in all their unpainted glory
when I'm old.) She'll count you
pennies like gypsy coins and do you take her for
her trying or roll her eyes? She will leave
and be alone and clutch her change purse with something
you don't really understand at all.
Suppose of all this, we're still waiting, dry cappiccinos and
dried daisies in our pockets (there was spring once, I remember the
smell of it.) Suppose I say to you: open your eyes, lovely,
there were rainbows flashing by that you just didn't see.
---
Suggested Collections
WORK IN PROGRESS.
Full Title:
Red yellow blue green turn page (we're still waiting.)
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Full Title:
Red yellow blue green turn page (we're still waiting.)
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Comments9
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Well if this is a work in progress you have to let me know when its all done cause i liked it from just what i read. good imagery and lots of good lines. your talent seems splendid and i enjoyed reading this poem!