Wet Paint

 

Often times I walk,

Look around confused,

Trying to be distinct,

See the world in twos,

One part is dark and blue,

The other a whitened hue,

The dark makes sense,

It’s harmless and true,

Harmless because it’s unhinged in a way,

Something you can trust,

The whitened is tricky, scary to me,

Maybe so cause untainted repels ‘em blots,

Whether true or an illusion,

Or honest in assertion,

It brings up my cringe, insecurities duh,

And I recoil at its sight like a cat to a puddle,

Sometimes what I call confidence in the Ace,

Is a thin blotted veil hiding something obtuse?

Cowardly demeanor,

Self-defense endeavor,

It’s quite like a wall when it’s dripping with paint,

It gives off its essence with naught but a touch,

Blessing the world with color and light,

While losing its soul,

Every time that it does,

And nothing: I say,

Could ever be scarier,

If like me you were cursed,

To always be the wet paint.