When I tread gingerly through the
Black and white
Pages in my subconscious mind, I
Cry black and white tears,
Colorless.
As a rainy November and a
Stale glass of tap water, a
Windowpane blurred with
Condensation, where the view is
Unclear.

The ink, it drips from my lips
As the people drip through the streets, from the
Leaky pipes.
Not truly forming a structure
But simply collapsing into a
Halfhearted heap.
And when the blood seems to
Fix itself into a plethora of
Little red beads like on a
Small girl’s necklace around-
My heart begins to pound its
Steady poetry…
I reach a place.

A place where the colors of happiness are not the
Blue in their jeans, nor the
Pink in their cheeks, not the
Purple in the bruises they provoke.
But the streets are crowded with
Speaking shades of inhuman
Sapphires and rubies and gold,
Whispering the voices of only the
Wind, and
Even if something isn’t breathing,
It doesn’t mean it’s not alive.

And so I sit.
I sit encased the comfort of only the
Cement safety walls of
Silent color,
Scoffing at the country’s growing need for
Pain when it already has a
Mainstream hunger for
Stereotypes and
Blacks and whites.

And so.
When I tread gingerly on the
Stepping stones of
Black ink that has
Puddled around the empty pages, I have
Bruises in my gut, but I have
All eyes for the silent walls of color that
Politely wait for my return
To my subconscious mind.