Sad and sorrowful, but with a lingering sense of hope.
It is the color of an old brick building, abandoned years ago, standing tall,
Or the old, dusty dress still hanging in the closet, alone and forgotten for years.
But it is also the color of a rose, fresh from the garden, its petals soft and young, awaiting the bright new day.
No matter what my poems are, they always come out looking ridiculously angsty. Honestly, I don't care for poetry at all - it's all a bit pretentious, isn't it? I far prefer prose and stories, really. Oh well, though - at least that's over, and I can move on to other things.
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