Black is the death that is eating away at my body and soul.
Black are the guns shooting sprays of bullets everywhere.
Black are the rats spreading diseases to humans.
Black is the raven pecking at the eyes of corpses.
Black is the bomb plummeting towards the earth.
Black is the night that stays in the sky while you sleep
Black is the cat that stalks through the alley behind you.
Black is the jaguar that pounces on its prey.
Black are the shoes on the shelf that will never be sold.
Black are the colour of fingers diseased by frostbite
Black is the storm swelling over the land scouring everything into darkness
Black is the bumble bee buzzing, around you, waiting to sting.
Black is the colour that reaches to the far corners of the universe.
Black is the colour of pencil that scratches at the skin.
Black is the colour of the photo that will never be seen.
Black is the shade of the knife jutting out of the my chest.
In truth, you like the pain. You like it because you believe you deserve it, and the fact that you’re putting yourself through pain means you are doing what you, by all rights, ought to do. You’re doing something right. Your ability to withstand pain is your claim to fame. It is ascetic, holy. It is self-control.
No comments:
Post a Comment