The colours of sensitivity

They say being sensitive is a sin.

To hold and feel too much within

Its like walking on egg shells -

Fears and messages upon which you dwell,

Memories upon which you re-play,

Too delicate, too deep,

“Just keep things light” they say.

But remember one thing –

Within this sin,

Within the shards of those shells,

Is the Kaleidoscope

Of a tender heart,

The one who navigates the world as art:

She sees all the shades of blue when you are down,

And sunshine yellow dancing in gardens on grey rainy days.

She knows the pink flush of a cheek before the feelings that embarrass.

And hears calm at dusk when pastels paint a purple sky.

She feels regeneration in dirty brown compost,

And the green hope of weeds that make their way through concrete jungles.

She smells citrus to lift spirits, makes lemonade without lemons.

She feels the letting go of autumn, the peace of amber leaf littered streets.

She feels the emerald dew of forests, and shudders when they’re burned and blackened.

She gawks at crimson blood that sheds, but holds all hands and makes sure mouths are fed.

She knows that life isn’t black or white – its the infinite shades that lie in-between, what remains to be seen.

She sees through big hazel eyes - all the humans that need hugging, and all the leaders that need loving.

I care in colour.

So if sensitive is a sin,

Then count me in!