Philosophers assure us
that it’s all a state of mind,
from every thought that’s in our head
to the boil on our behind.
They say we are not truly real,
that all life is illusion,
but if there is no life or death
I can’t reach my conclusion.
So I’ll just stick to simple thoughts,
of laughter, love and bed,
for what’s the point of being Blue
when it’s more fun seeing Red?
Comments about this poem (Colourblind by Maggie Munro )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings