Class Clowns

photo credits here, edited.

by anonymous

there once was this child; he was peculiar. An oddity, a blob of colours that mashed themselves not into a homogeneous hue, but a whirlwind of blinding ocean.

when he was angry, his breaths came out in whiffs of purple; grief emanated the shade of light blue.

But he keeps a routine.

A routine of flashing his cards in random order. Red, black, orange, green, yellow, red , yellow , red. Red and yellow came in clean tinges of hype and attention; laughter too.

They call him class clown. He liked that name. It brought more comfort than the other name. It reminded him of circuses. Of men that wore striking colors and a smile to their death.

An explosion of whirlwinds of hurricanes of streaks of shades of laughter.

He remembered laughter.

he laughed and he cried and he laughed and cried and laughed and cried and laughed and . .. . . .. .. . … … . cried;

but he remembers


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