Now they call him the Painted Man,
But once upon a time he had no name,
A true blank slate,
Eyes of grey,
And colourless hair.

Society gave him his colour,
Everyone who met him painted a stroke,
We were all artists,
His body was our canvas,
Our words to him were the brush.

Red of anger and frustration,
Blues of sorrow and disappointment,
Yellows of joy and excitement,
Greens of envy and want,
And myriad other shades of feeling.

He is now the Painted Man,
A creation of society,
A monument and a monster,
Are we really any different?
Were we not all painted?


  1. Miss Crocodile says:

    Very cool and in many ways so true

  2. bjsscribbles says:

    Thank you for finding and following my blog I will follow in return so I can come back..I like the thought behind your poem.

  3. Hi osharlequin. Sounds good to me. May I thank you for calling and wanting to folliw my poetry adventures. Nice yo meet you. The Care. The Foureyed Poet.

  4. quiall says:

    very deep! I like it.

  5. Osharlequin says:

    Reblogged this on WorldofHarley and commented:

    The Painted Man

  6. […] 1 of a “trilogy” of sorts. Festival Of Blood – Part 2. Cerberus – Part 3. The Painted Man – A story of a man shaped by […]

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