The Colour Turquoise

Sweat trickles down the center of my palm,

My hand outstretched to shake.

The genuine excitement begins to fade,

Reality of my situation settles.

He tells me his rehearsed appraisal of self.

I don't hear a word.

The whistles of my mind blow loud enough to stop a soccer game.

He finishes.

"And yourself?" he asks.

Indicative of my longing for self-improvement,

I am intellectually stammered by the concept of introductions.

Amidst continuous and effortful attempts,

I resign from the ideology.

Every day is a perpetual effort

To grow into someone I wasn't yesterday.

How does an introduction

Give justice to my soul?

I am the colour fuchsia.

Heads rotate and eyes fixate

As my aura walks ten steps ahead of me.

I've released my grip from being controlling

And admitted myself to notice wrongs...

The fuchsia is no longer.

I am the colour cognac.

The pride in my allegory reigns as prestige.

Every parable amalgamated into a resume

To encompass the ego I've grown from diffidence.

I sit with humility.

Comprehension of my overcompensation

Causes the cognac to fade.

I am the colour sienna.

My spirit roams as if in searching,

Invigorated by the output of my own energy.

Enjoyment flows without exasperation.

As responsibility edges it's tightly woven web into my vicinity,

The sienna I once was begins to burn.

If over-thinking were a shirt,

I'd have worn holes in it.

If self-doubt was a language,

It'd be my native tongue.

Sweat trickles down the center of my palm,

My hand outstretched to shake.

The genuine excitement begins to fade,

Reality of my situation settles.

He tells me his rehearsed appraisal of self.

An introduction.

I don't hear a word.

The whistles of my mind blow loud enough to stop a soccer game.

He finishes.

"And yourself?" he asks.

I inhale.

I regret.

I begin.

I am -