Colour of imagination

I am the colour of imagination,

an infinite source of identity.

I am also a blank page,

still wandering and wondering

what art I am.

Splattered with red, I cannot see whether

this is the red of a fiery love for who I am

Or a putrid hatred for what others think of me.

Am I a danger to society? Or to myself?

STOP. Is my sexuality my

vulnerability? Is it a

liability?

But I am optimistically orange.

There is a fine line between pessimism

and realism. Like the conflagration of

autumn leaves gracefully gliding, I

can’t help but think…is there beauty

in suffering? I am tormented by my confusion

of who I am.

To the world I am yellow,

like my mellow skin, this is

my oriental façade.

To some, it is feeble and sickly.

To others, I am an exotic spice.

But clarity is blurred and overshadowed

by an incoming storm, judgmental in its

thunderous triumph.

Perhaps through the torturous rain,

merciless in its impact, can it nourish

me, letting me flourish into a scenery of

greenery. Liberate me as I blossom, a feminine

flowering supported by a pillar of

masculine magnificence. I choose to be

femasculine…

…because after a thunderstorm, always comes

the blessing of blue skies. Unlimited in its

reach and undefeated in all its battles. A calm

birthed from calamity, a serenity embraced by

a brilliant blue – but what is true?

It does not matter, because the power is in

me. Armoured with a confidence that is

daring, vibrant and violently violet, I can

conquer anything and everything. I rejoice the

power to make a choice, independent of

everyone and dependent on me.

My pride is more than a rainbow,

it is the colour of imagination.

I am not a blank canvas, because

I am, definitely and definitively,

the Artist.