Okay, background time: I don't like white tempera paint. I find it slightly revolting. So, this is a poem based off of my dislike of white paint.
the whiteness sickens me.
“of the paint?” they ask.
i suppose.
yes.
they shrug and turn a blind eye,
for,
i am insane,
you know.
at least, that's what they tell me.
it’s unnatural,
the paint.
it devours the black
lecherous
removing all but its like:
other white specks that dot the page.
oozing slightly,
a permeating ess snaking down the page
in a sick line.
everything’s white now.
no shadows.
no color.
no emotion.
no choice.
the paint,
through no visible flaw
is twisted by its falsity.
i can feel it.
and the world remains silent.
my hands are clenched,
fingers tight…
in fear?
in pain?
in anger?
but certainly in hopelessness.
