Senses Poem by Victoria Lam

I try to write of happy things,
laying upon my bed, waiting
for the golden light of positivity
to wash across my mind,
and fill it with the type of blue that blooms,
pink that blushes,
and soft tipped green that tastes like mint.

But sadness laces the edge of my thoughts,
with threads that latch onto bloody brick walls.
It's a dark rosy pepper,
with tight shiny skin and
seeds that put fire in the cold, fertile ground.

Hope is a taste that I am learning,
not unfamiliar by sight, but foreign by touch.
It warms in a pool within my palm,
as my pulse melts the key of ice that was once there.