It might be said:
It seems like I haven’t written in some time,
And for the most part, I feel like the culprit of an unconscionable crime,
Since I have concealed the truth;
The resonating echoes of suffering endurance
As tears relentlessly rolled from my eyes.
I don’t mean to superficially endorse my emotional inconsistencies.
You see, I’m not one to drag my legs after the crowd of glaring faces,
Who tend to blindly follow the patches of dirt so deeply treaded upon,
Holes of inescapable traces become no more than hazes... shadows
Embedded within their hearts… for they will not, and cannot turn back.
Yes, I do see the monotonal wisps embedded within the pits of my world every once in a while.
Blacks and whites come in more than the empty, obscured skies,
Of brightly-scattered stars every twelve hours.
This place is not an epitome of intricated shades
Painted on an innocent, blank spread of canvas.
They can never turn back, though they decide so blindly,
Alongside their extravagant loops of wonder, interwoven within the flutters of unprecedented laughter,
Curling lips, rosy cheeks,
As they glance up to the blinding streams of light…
The one they thought was theirs.
But they weren’t theirs; they were nothing more than clandestine deceit,
Clearer than the fullest moon in the pitch blotches of a long, lonely night,
Stretching into the depths of their deep-rooted perceptions,
The strands of monotone they so greatly ignored.
I choose to see the blacks of night,
And the whites of light in my world;
It clears my vision,
Despite being psychologically-driven.
Sometimes, the one you love
Is the underlying monotone you blindly overlooked.
I think with my mind,
And not with my heart.
You see... I'm a bit complicated.