Neon Colored Bodies Slink Through The Crowd,
Though They Whisper Their Voice Is Still Loud,
One Of Them--A Poet--Writes Of Their Fate,
How They Are Trapped In This Beautiful State,
But To The Newspaper-Inked People It Is Absurd,
They Look Away And Don't Speak A Single Word,
Their Blood Is Not Black But A Rosy Red,
Their Brains Are Not Chained Inside Their Heads,
The Inked People Push Them Down To Stay Tall,
They Grasp And Pin Them Against Every Wall,
And Slowly--Ever So Slowly Their Colors Fade,
They Start Hating Their Own Beautiful Shade,
So They Start Breaking Down Their Own,
Breaking Themselves Into Rubble And Stone
And As Every Hurtful Word They Say Covers Them,
The Flower Wilts Ontop Of Their Blackened Stem,
And In The End--They Finally Have What They Wanted,
The Ability To Blend