Poetry
Static burns in my chest
scraping raw the edges
where hope meets reality.
I once dreamed in technicolor
though the world tells me
that black and white is the limit.
Who are you to stop me
from bleeding color into life;
a desperate hope though it is?
I have ink for blood,
and I’m not afraid to use it–
to lose the pigment that fills me.
Though the static leaves scars
and the dream has long faded,
hope remains.
There is nothing else.
CC Writes 