My Experience, My Color

You know, my life isn’t painted by someone else’s brush.

Every scar, every smile, every silence

they’re all strokes of my own color.

My experience, my color.

I walked through empty streets this morning.

The sky still half-asleep,

Memories hung from the telephone wires like drying clothes in the breeze.

I don’t need to fit your frame

Don’t need to echo someone’s fame

The cracks I carry they glow like gold.

The quiet I keep, it’s fierce, and bold

My experience, my color.

Every bruise, every bloom, every lover

is a shade only I could ever mix.

Every fall, every flight  

part of the canvas I didn’t fix

Because this ...

This is my color

It’s okay if it smudges.

Okay if it bleeds through the lines.

I was never meant to be clean.

I was meant to be true.

And true things are rarely tidy.

My experience, my color

Even when the world goes black and white.

I’ll keep painting in my own light

Might be messy, might be wrong

But it’s mine,  it’s been mine all along

My story, my fire, my whisper, my thunder, 

my experience,  my color.