Being white...is now a sin to society.







I was nothing but a plain canvass. Hanging in the wall, the consummate design of purity. One day, I threw a dot in the middle of my frame to see how life is like. Then all of the sudden, I became the attention of most paintings. I was art. I was meaningful. The thought of my imperfection is art. But not all commits to that sense of style, and they judged me. They smudged me with colors I'm unfamiliar with. Their hands changed me in terms of tragedy, just like themselves. My innocence became abstract with different intentions. The white no longer defined me, but the sins they made me do provide.

Gifts. Not all gifts consist of contagious laughs, nor shrieking woes. For most children, they receive joy, and sometimes a coffin for the old. Mine was hard to distinguish even up today. Because it was dressed like a daydream under the sheets of gray. A snowglobe, a sculpture of two faces, the atmosphere that surrounds it like a womb. It felt secure. A city of our dreams where no one can touch. The love that never came to me was there to watch. I remember feeling almost everything to the sound of your breath and fascinating wonders. With you the glitters there form a twister. The figures within will dance until their feet numb. Christmas hums whisper through the effect of the words 'i love you'. And those were the reasons I forgot it was all a lie. I forced myself a sweet lie. Because somehow, I lost the sense of reality. Your hands will never intertwine mine. Your eyes will never see that little world. Eventhough I admit I was fine, I blinded myself in this light. The thought of you managed to make chilly snows as glitter. The colors turned dull as I make out our figure. As if a midnight train, you abandoned our memories at dawn. And your heart making decisions like stone. It was gloomy and cold and funny. The perfect piece of broken melody. So I sing with this gift that you bestow, locking my soul in eternal sorrow.

You killed the child in me.
A brutal ****** it was,
no mercy for his gentle soul.
His wide eyed wonder gone.

He was doused in gasoline,
and swiftly set alight
turned from happy kid,
to raging inferno, lit the night

His ashes did not have time to cool
before a stirring in their midst.
A cynical angry man did rise,
Not a phoenix borne of myth.

For now it hurts, just to smile
there's no mirth in my eye.
My laughter lines are obsolete
Just extensions of my frown.