Black and white, never black and white

Your tongue is red from the blood you’ve spilt

From the words like knives in your mouth

The parchment you’ve stained with your red ink

Tells many things but it is never black and white;

No: red and white, no: red and black, no: –

Your grotesque “art” – is that what you call it? –

You think is a little disgusting but also a little lovely

And some think it’s disgusting and some think it’s lovely

But you’ve never been able to see one way or the other

It’s started to blend all in into one big smear, a mess on paper

The parchment is scattered throughout pieces of your life

And she has what you never meant to let her see

And he has his scrap that you slipped under his drink –

He still doesn’t know where he got it, though he keeps it

Bundled and wrinkled in his wallet for always

And still you spit your blood on paper

No matter how beautiful or how revolting,

You manage to see past it and get through it

But it is never easy and it only gets harder and harder

Not everyone can see that you’re good, and you are good

But the thing about that is, the good always die young

And you are dying; it’s clear in the blood on the paper

Art is never seen in black and white just as you cannot be seen

In black and white

The good is hidden and most people can’t see red

And I am so sorry you’re too good


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