Clandestine Poet

I wonder what you look like on the inside, because I know I look quite different. When I'm red on the outside it normally means I'm feeling blue. When I let my blues show, that probably means that I'm either green with envy, or something scary has got me just plain yellow. My art teacher taught me if you take all of those colours and mix them around together, around and around, for long enough you get a special shade of grey, which he calls chromatic grey, but I like to call it under the weather.

Yours I can't quite figure out yet. It takes a little fear and a little rage to make orange. You add some mystery to that and you get to brown. There's something more to it though, I can't quite put my finger on it but I know there's more to you than that. There's a shade of roses or royalty in you, it shows in your lips. Oh, how your lips fascinate me ever so. I wonder what other colours you're hiding. You are a clandestine poet, and I can offer you nothing else but my finest canvas.