White Walls Emma Phillips
I once lived in a house with white walls– Often passed by peculiar people, All inhabiting neon walls Of luminous brights.
As my eyes began to burn, I splotched over the neons. Soon, I found boredom in my
Pale. White. Walls. That spoke nothing artistically, once more. So, I sat in my house of white walls, Scrutinizing the neon artists And attempting to authentically make neon Out of Pale. White. Paint.
Mine remained white. Populated by buckets And brimmed with pale paints.
I often wished the neon artists Would splotch my white walls
With the bright blobs Their brushes created.
Occasionally loaning me a rendition of their color, Pigmentation dripped down the same walls That had spoken nothing artistically, Widening my eyes peculiarly with depth.
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