I walk the road between perfect and flawed,
the life I wished I had, and the one I bought.
Paid for with hours, the wages they taxed;
the love I sought for, but never amassed.

I ride the line between black and white,
an area so bright, yet dark as the night.
Everything I wanted, plus everything I had
amounts to nothing more than being sad.

I am the umbrella,
whose purpose insinuates,
that I block all of nature’s utter worst traits.
The pounding showers of the spring,
and the blinding rays that summer screams.

I have a purpose, of that I have no doubt,
However, to this purpose, of what do I give the amount?
A few raindrops, off the corner of a fabrication,
Or a predetermined task from birth; delineation.

I am the one who lives between two sides,
The one on the right,
And the one filled with lies.
Though I see in color, what can I say?
I cannot attest for either,
For I live in the area of grey.