I wrote this poem when I was 15:
I feel like purple today.
Not like just a color to wear,
But the entire skyscape of May.
A whole late Spring cloud scene.
Why can’t I rain on trees!
Or soak the drying laundry!
Be the drizzle that turns the river grey!
I am feeling purple like the dripping clouds.
Purple feels… obnoxious.
If only I could be the curious cloud,
Creeping into windows left open,
Because it was just too warm yesterday.
Purple feels… redundant.
Like midday shade on grass cold and slippery.
Or gray paint, once white, now chipping.
An old empty 3 story house.
Purple feels… vindictive.
If I could be the storm cloud,
That puts the grimace on your face.
Be the scent of wet concrete filling your nose.
-May 2, 1993
Ya, that was me at 15. I’ve read this poem so many times, it’s lost any meaning to me. All I see is the frustration; the inability to act or be seen. The journal I wrote it in is falling apart now, pages loosened from the binding. But it’s good to still have her voice. It will help me with the boys to have a written record of what I was thinking and feeling at that age. They are going to be twice as much as me, or rather each a different half of me, folder over and then quadrupled. So any resource material will be helpful. Spring has consistently fascinated me. Always. Winters and summers can come and go without comment or inspiration, though I usually make a point to take note, to pay attention, to feel the season, but Spring… damn.