If I were a line. I think I’d be curled, billowed and swirled, and slowly unfurled.
I’d sweep over a page, if I were a line, with the wind in my hair, and my heart laid bare.
That’s what I’d be, if I were a line.

If I were a spot. I’d be round and fat (now how about that?), like an old, well-fed cat.
I’d have drizzled and dropped, if I were a spot, pittering and pattering with a slight hint of smattering.
That’s what I’d be, if I were a spot.

If I were a color. I’d be a rich red, like a painted deathbed or a sword to the head.
I’d lunge for macabre, if I were a colour, made oh-so dramatic, my thoughts all sporadic.
That’s what I’d be, if I were a colour.

But I am a human, so pale and flawed, and easily bored, (wishing I was adored).
I twist and bend.
My shape is no other, than the one I can be.
My colour, it changes almost constantly, because I am a human:
a human – that’s me.

Although, If I tried to depict myself in a shape - or a line - that would be just fine
(If I could find such a line).

Libellés : life, mind

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