It seems to be the hue.
I am who I am,
Pains of life edit me and
Wake me up at half past four a.m.
I am grown with weed,
I am not me neither
I am not what you think,
For my grey skies don’t be greed.
My heart is crimson with scolding blood,
Tears on my pillows are flood.
You painted my name
In vain, your words are swords,
What you told me and them is not me,
These words are acting rods,
For you to stand, I am not me,
I am you inside me.
I stand behind stem of tree,
Because you cut all the branches,
So I have no shadow.
My eyes aren’t blue,
That’s not the hue,
It’s me behind the best of you,
Please don’t edit me for what you desire.
This is fire pillaging through skull and soul.
That’s not hue,
Also not blue.