I was merely your canvas ,
Engulfed by your colours ,
That spoke true madness ,
As if you were a florist.
Paint brush in hand ,
But all I saw was gray ,
Your strokes landed ,
Back and forth from the tray ,
Even once painted ,
I've never seen such sadness,
So much potential wasted .
Yet the way you painted elsewhere,
I've never seen such vibrancy,
How could I compare,
As if I was an open vacancy.
Gray was all you used on me ,
Why were u stained differently?
Was I something you got for free?
While U waste your sadness on me .
As you painted others in such bright colours ,
All I could wonder was why I was left with your absences,
Always under the covers ,
Wondering what attraction is .
14 December 23
