Maybe to you I'm nothing more than shades
Of black and white.
The dark and the light at war,
tearing apart a broken body
Until it's left to waste.
Shadows haunting an already ghost of a soul.
Your shutter always sticks so that
I come out in incomplete smudges.
I used to exist in color,
But maybe that's too far gone.
Those photos are all lost
Or melted by the sun.
Red lips and brown eyes --
Glossed over now, as black.
Peachy skin and soft freckles...
Look sickly white, a dotted grey.
Your pictures are framed in galleries,
And people ponder what they may mean...
But my old photographer, all of his pictures were only meant for me.
Just thinking about different people in my life and how I image they see me.
- - -
I miss the world of photography, I should get back in... maybe.