Sock Paint

by WildChild

Wild Children

The paint is dripping down my leg, on my night gown and I don’t wash it off. I watch it trickle down my leg, it hits my sock and I think now that sock is special.  Now that sock has a purpose.  Now what is my purpose?  To paint wrong colors on wrong walls and watch wrong things happen to wrong people and witness myself being wronged and people wronging others?  When does the paint spill in the right direction and not on people but on socks?

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