Why not just write

Writing here
Probably started with that before
But writing here
Is my mind
In black in white
With its colours
And with its temperature
Known to few
As known by little
It makes you wonder
Should I be quiet
Should I leave
Should I just let it all be
The love
For blue
The change
With scarlet
The orange
Ever mind blowing
The happiness
The sadness
The not knowing
The silence
Is it green
Is it pink
What is in a rainbow
Except rain and light
A fairy tale of gold
Or a treasure found by few
All this black and white
As vronsky
As a captain
As a paradox
As a hero of our time
Or is it a speaking cat
A man on a bench
A tram running someone over
A cocktail
And a swift touch
Felt till today
Or is it black and white
On the first winters day
With water
A purple sofa
And just
Something more
Little is known
Little is ever knows
Little is small
And small makes it big
And big is deciding
Is the story
Is the everything
Or is that all
Just not
Just not making sense
I wonder
Will pink
Ever be green
Will pink
Ever be
Or is Descartes
Just wrong
Is it Nietzsche that is right
Or is it all Freud
I don’t care
I’m here
With colours
And nobody
Wrote about them.

Yellow