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.