It’s Not Easy Being Green

Prose Poetry

I play this game, where I sink into my covers. I see how far it gets me, when it will let the liquid consume my abrasive form. I imagine the depth of it to be ethereal, to be the color of a dewy moss. I don’t think you realize, how the colors play their shallow part, mute themselves into me for a lack of empathy. To be this color green, motives get crossed. Everything outside of it is orange. Not just the soft peachy orange, but bright, neon orange, barely culpable.

The solitude of green goes like this;

The covers, the game. It unapologetically devours, creating a new delicious seclusion. Which, the taste of it isn’t at all worrying, until I’m swallowed, and I find the sleepiness to hide in.

Outer saturations become singular latches, they mostly just scrounge for authenticity. I have to remind myself, It’s okay, to emulate that.

Every torrential rain leaves you with blossoms. It grows trees soaked with moisture, and lush fields of congruent planes. It’s a nice affirmation.

Green only uses “Grotesque” for subjective shallowness, without consideration of the vessel holding it.

Colors combine, but pale verdant seems to step away, allowing the buried roots to level.

My shade, Sought out but never tended to, out of belief but full of hope, brightened with color, but deepened by the tone. That, is the full seclusion. Yeah, It’s not easy, being green, But, nevertheless, it’s the color that knows how to grow a flourished garden.