Black and White

Black and White

Rainbows engulf the sea;
Its shadow embodies itself as an ouroboros – yet these,
Remain unhunted.
Silver clowns reign among the circus tent.
Yet in reality, they are the prisoners.
And the caged lions that they whip,
Struck for no purpose.
Rainbows can too be view as a single colour.
Clouds raining among the over-drenched summer;
They aren’t contrasting, rather, complimentary.
One white leaf stands astray from the others,
All differences aside, he reconciles and finds peace,
In a glassy meadow, with one’s reflections as clear as a night,
The leaf is drowned in a metropolis of city lights,
It is then that he might realize how the river’s flow has come to cease.
A yellow shimmer of a broken heart;
What passion, let us hear it, has been evoked, awoken,
To sew this glass tonight?
If prefecture is perfect, then why do I feel alone?
If a lights purpose is to remove all fears then,
Why do they shine one distinct colour?

Grassy hills bear trees and fruits,
Longing to survive, the tree-monkeys grasp onto the truth,
Longing to be awoken, slaves compose songs bearing flute
Melodies, rhythms; yet they’re emotionless, stagnant
For the lights in the machines eyes shine’s all
But that of the monkey’s favourite fruit’s colour.
It is not the tree-monkey now that sits atop the hill, but the machines.
Blood-stained, working,
Working, working, to uphold an idea
Yet these workers were also born on branches, just as the tree monkeys were too,
So can we not summon our arms, and thrust them against our own trees?
Or rather, plant their seeds in various environments, in
An attempt to understand each-other once more?
Surrounded by green; money, grass
Are the two ideas so different, so as to be met so hesitantly,
When the rivers we once floated on are connected at last?
Why shouldn’t robots become monkey? Or monkey robots?
And why should we let the preset current of life continue to
Manipulate and control us?

For we’re all sailing to the same place, we’re all living the same day
And the colours we bear are in fact, not white and black but
Blue and Grey
The clouds that are above us, and the sea that is beneath us,
Reflect our true selves and our true desires.
The ocean is an illusion, and just too is the sky,
The lights we all hold are ours alone, and all shine our own colour.

Guitar Pic

I was in my room and printing off guitar tablature for a song I was learning. I had logged onto the computer yesterday to download it, but for some reason, it just wouldn’t work! For some reason, my family always use to leave the TV on. They just left it on, even when they weren’t home, even when there wasn’t anything good on, even. Today it was softer than usual, thank god. Something about a natural disaster. Something about a war, explosions and fire. I went to play my guitar, albeit, pausing midway through plugging my guitar into the amp to grab my pic, and I held as tight in my mouth as my mother would me as a child. The pick was large, green, and was inked bearing a fluorescent skull, that seemingly spoke to you as if to say, “You want to be this badass!”. Caught in a moment of admiration, I found myself breathing heavily, and therefore, swallowing the guitar pic I, a few seconds ago, held tight in my mouth. Well that is to say, chocking, as I was likely already suffocated by the time I head swallowed it. And my parents would probably come in my room and panic, cry, call the ambulance, the police. Fuck, fuck, I don’t know. I had never seen somebody die before. I’d seen people talk about dying, and reenact dying, but I’d never died myself. So when it came around to it, I felt an odd hesitation, though I decided to paint myself red.