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?
WorldofHarley 
Very cool and in many ways so true
Thank you kindly! 🙂
The Oldschool Harlequin
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.
You are most welcome my friend, great work! Thank you kindly! I’m very happy that you liked it. 🙂
The Oldschool Harlequin
Your most welcome
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.
Thank you very much my friend! You are most welcome! 🙂
The Oldschool Harlequin
very deep! I like it.
Thank you kindly, I’m glad that you think so! 🙂
The Oldschool Harlequin
Reblogged this on WorldofHarley and commented:
The Painted Man
[…] 1 of a “trilogy” of sorts. Festival Of Blood – Part 2. Cerberus – Part 3. The Painted Man – A story of a man shaped by […]