Life is a long, dreary existence.
There isn't a point to it.
We build, destroy, and build, destroy
We di more harm than good.
We look for reasons
And only see shallow excuses
Seeing the only black and white
Never the dreary gray
That dulls our lives
The colour, only imaginative
Black, white, gray
Dead, high, depressed
That's what those colour basically stand for.
Black=you're dead
White=you're soaring on a cloud
Gray=you see the way the world is,
Right after you come down from White.
That's how it is right?
White, Gray, Black
In a proper order
Dreary, how the days go by
Same dreary routine
Mostly Gray
With flashes of White
And thoughts of Black
Dreary clothes
Dreary life
Colour only a breaths' away
But still clouded with the
White, Gray, and Black
Wonderful life = White
Dull life = Gray
Without life = Black
How fun would it be
To leave this dreary life of
White, Gray, and Black
To fall asleep
And not wake up
To permantly join this Parade of Black
That holds more colour
Than the bright Earth
Home of 7 billion dreary
White, Gray people
Millions of others who see the Black
But we stay in the cumbersome mix
Of White, Gray, and Black
How Dreary.
YOU ARE READING
My Book Of Poems
PoetryThese are simply poems or thoughts I have. I have no idea why you'd want to read this, but if you do, don't if anything in here can cause a relapse or trigger. Most are depressing and some very short. Beware if you decide to read.
