It was an interesting workshop where I discovered different ways to look at things, different ways to find inspiration outside of yourself. One of the exercises was to try to use words in a new way defined by you but so that the reader/listener can get the meaning. I chose to use colours. Here's my poem, worked on a bit after the workshop.
The Colourful Coward
He’s like orange in that fake way,
Like the way orange looks bouncy and smells sickeningly-happy
But it really isn’t.
He likes to speak about African princesses and stars
Though he only touches them with grey.
That cold, unattached, slippery, non-committed side of grey,
Not the killer side
The side with passion.
I would have welcomed the killer side.
Even just a sliver to know he had it somewhere under everything the world saw of him.
Blue is where he likes hiding
When I insist he cut the bullshit.
When his orange and too-slick grey does my head in.
Blue, all stout and round and sturdy
Rolling, rolling— pretending as if my eyes are immune to blue.
But I see it.
I see him thinking he’s safe there.
I know all about these things.
Blue is part of it- isn’t it?
Part of the problem.
Blue, she lets him hide there
And she makes everything worse.