Why do they always paint me as the bad guy?
Color in my pale face so they can't see it.
Hide away the pain in my eyes.
The vibrant colors run away and monotone fades in.
Why can't the sun always shine?
Appreciate it for its warmth,
Instead of complaining about the sweat produced on your head.
Why do we see red as blood?
Instead of power and love.
The wide spectrum of my emotions are not seen,
But instead you see only the blues and grays.
Black.
You paint me as the monster.
Shade in the extra dark parts of me,
Yet you can't even see the arrangement of colors scattered in your reflection of lies
YOU ARE READING
Rigor Samsa
Poetry"n. a kind of psychological exoskeleton that can protect you from pain and contain your anxieties, but always ends up cracking under pressure or hollowed out by time-and will keep growing back again and again, until you develop a more sophisticated...
