Ehhh.... Psychology

Stuck In a Paper 

All I know is black and white. I was drawn by a painter for a stranger on the streets of downtown, a sudden scribble for a random passerby. The corners of my mouth are permanently placed like the creases in a book that someone forgot to read. I cannot frown for I am forever smiling and never expressing other emotions I feel. My arms and legs are straws that bend accordingly, but in misleading manners. The stranger folded my world, my view of the universe, and only remembered their own.

Is blue soft, but sticky like cotton candy?

Is yellow extremely hot like the summer or exceedingly sour like a lemon?

All I know is white and black. I run from corner to corner, bumping into the outside world. I was not drawn for a museum or art display. If I was redrawn on another piece of paper or on a beautiful canvas, would I look for my original place? If I flew on a cloud and jumped on an advertisement I would see drivers and passengers heading to their own piece of paper. That place which they call home. I am where I have always been, in a crease in the bench that the stranger ate lunch on and forgot the scribble from the painter, this piece of paper.

Does green bend like grass or brown flow like sand through the fingers of a hand?

Does orange feel round like the fruit of the same name?

All I know is black and white and white and black. If one cannot miss what they do not know, then why do I yearn to be in the world outside of this piece of paper? It hurts to be stuck in a paper.