(I... wasn't going to do this...write a poem off the short story I wrote, which can be found here: topic69490.html. But I got bored and wrote a poem anyway, and so I'm posting it up. I don't think it's any good... actually, lol, but here it is anyway. ^^)
He sheds the biscuit colored shell
that reclines on his black-gloved palm--
Black like being
color-blind.
Except,
when he fissures open
the oatmeal bark,
there appears a verdant pistachio.
We stay in the waiting room,
and the kernel flakes onto his fabric.
He struggles with the beige-tinged shell
that resists his black-gloved fingers--
Black like being
a neutral.
Except,
the hull does not chink open,
and there is no verdurous pistachio.
We stay in the waiting room
and the treat remains closed away.
