I don't live in
a black and white world,
but there are days in which
my pallette is screwed up.
Love and passion
are no longer red,
but hues of grey
fill my soul.
Blues are no longer
beautiful,
but are muted versions
of angry self-loathing.
Nature is not reflected
in pastels,
but my mirror is broken,
for no light exists
in the shadow it creates.
If I truly cared to believe
that the grass is greener,
I could learn to look past
all the melancholic colors.