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Fake.
 




Morphing into this void,
I feel like a humanoid,
in a world of black and white,
About my colour, I cant decide.

On a fast track we hop along,
Screaming and shouting to every pop song,
Sometimes, in the crowd, is where I feel I belong,
And it usually feels, just a little,
Wrong.

Shouting at the dark skies, filled with blooming lights,
The black is so certain, as is the white,
Its so simple, and yet breathtaking,
Harmony in all this contradictoring madness,
I guess my colour is still in the making,
But before taking mine,
I need to harvest.

Fragile, the touch of my skin,
Breakable, the sound of my voice,
Questionable are the thoughts I let in,
I donít think itís a matter of choice.

Harvest is knocking on my door,
If I donít answer, the crops will decay,
What is my colour, tell me because I am not sure,
And if I chose, I might reconsider, and be the worst of all,


Fake.







By Xibell

© 2019 Xibell (All rights reserved)

 

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