Some folks are blue — but not the sad kind, More like thunderclouds whispering jazz in rewind. They hum Billie Holiday in their sleep, And cry in Morse code, six emotions deep.
The yellows? Oh, they dance like spilled lemonade. Grinning sunbeams with cracked porcelain souls, Spilling laughter like it’s loose change — but check their eyes: ⚠ That joy might be staged.
I once met a man who was maroon, Like velvet soaked in heartbreak and ballroom perfume. He drank poetry from chipped mugs, And whispered to pigeons in existential shrugs.
Greens think in spirals. They grow from places no one sees — Roots tangled in other people’s dreams, Photosynthesizing your grief into schemes.
Pink girls giggle like glitching satellites. They kiss with glitter and leave before midnight. Don’t trust a pink — she’ll love you like lightning and vanish before the thunder starts biting.
The gray ones wear suits made of smoke. They file feelings under “Miscellaneous Choke.” They speak Excel, cry Helvetica, and bleed in grayscale just to stay ethical.
Some are ultraviolet — Invisible until they burn your skin. You won’t see them enter your life, but you’ll feel the mark, long after they’ve gone in the wind.
And me? I’m somewhere between indigo and dirt, A bruise with a birth certificate, A mural you only see when the wall starts to hurt.
So next time you speak to someone new, Don’t ask what they do — Ask what shade of silence they are when the world forgets to look.
