If I were a spot
I’d be round and fat
(now how about that?)
like an old, well-fed cat.
I’d have drizzled and dropped,
if I were a spot,
pittering and pattering
with a slight hint of smattering.
That’s what I’d be,
if I were a spot.

If I were a colour
I’d be a rich red,
like a painted deathbed
or a sword to the head.
I’d lunge for macabre,
if I were a colour,
made oh-so dramatic,
my thoughts all sporadic.
That’s what I’d be,
if I were a colour.

But I am a human,
so pale and flawed,
and easily bored,
(wishing I was adored).
I twist and bend
(these hinges, you see?);
my shape is no other
than the one I can be;
My colour, it changes
almost constantly,
because I am a human:
a human – that’s me.

…

Although,
If I tried to depict myself
in a shape – or a line -
that would be just fine
(If I could find such a line).