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I am not upset.
I am not down.
I am just broken sometimes.
My hatred is up to people who don't care.
People who don't see, or better,
who doesn't make effort to see.
My jealousy is to ones who are able to do anything
Yet they aren't aware of them.
To people who can say that sun is yellow,
Sea is blue and grass is green.
My pity is on them, too.
For being arrogants.
My fear is to see people
Who broke down so badly and cannot be fixed.
Also gave up on life.
My anger is towards people who don't know what empathy is.
My defence is the walls I try to build around myself.
My defence is to never trust someone else.
But somehow, you know, you just make an exception and let people in.
Even though you recognize the risk of it,
You just let them in.
Then, you get your heart broken hard
And given to your hands.
Meanwhile, even your shedded tears can't save you.
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YOU ARE READING
White Memories of A Black Life
Poetry"I have never tasted the brightness of yellow, the calmness of blue, the cheer of green or the love of red. I felt something; still do I, but never related to colours. I only know the pureness of white and the mystery of black. Oh, and grey. For mos...
