Black Sheep And White Clouds

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You're a steady stream of bad choices waiting to happen.

The eye of the storm, or the calm before it?
What's the difference?
It's going to ruin you anyway.
You're a constant trickle of water, wanting to make noise but too scared to do it.
Because you're a puppet controlled by strings.
Water controlled by the trap.

I wish my life was like a game show where you press the buzzer and you're either right or wrong.
Or a question in Kaun Banega Crorepati,
Because then I'd be factual.
Why can't it all be factual?
Why does it need to be grey,

the quiet soothing ailment that never goes away?

Why isn't it white, maybe because the clouds disappear too?

Like all the white leaves.
Laced with disappointment and ringed with defeat.

Or the black, completely devoid of colour.
No no, I won't be cliche and compare this to the night.
The night has much colours to go about yet.
No black like the stove I used to burn my hand on.
Or black like the charger that always shocked me.
Or black like the pouch of nail care I had but always bled because I didn't like the extra skin.
But black has its limits.

My heart can't be black.
It has to be red. It's a muscle
My bruises can't be red. They go purple and then yellow.
My black eye. Ah a good name but still won't suit my purpose.
It's purple and its swollen shut.

Why isn't my body black?
So I could hide in broad daylight.
They say no one notices a black sheep.
They never do.
But I want to at least be seen, if not spoken about upfront.
And I want to be talked about even if it's behind my back.
Because at least I'd know I exist.
Do I though?

black sheeplovepainpassionpoemsad poemsself hateself loathing

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