|Monotone In Technicolor
Author: acrobia PM
Monotone in technicolor, I strive to see past the lines in my television (static in every channel, as far as I can see) the lines, forming your eyes, your face, your ideology. Giving me something to hope for, giving me something to live for.Rated: Fiction K - English - Words: 402 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 1 - Published: 11-28-04 - id: 1770141
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Monotone in Technicolor
If it's against the law, to step to the edge of the looking glass and look past the faces, the sorrow and the grief, they may God forgive me for not being blind.
I must have made a mistake. They are probably looking for me already, noticed the anomaly, the infirmity of this country - in me.
I'm better off dead, in their eyes. And mine are not sure if they are wrong either. My tastes are far too extravagant, skeletical dolls and piercing blue eyes were not made for this society.
I apologize for dreaming about you without asking your permission, I know you don't see me in your head during English class when you are bored and there is nothing left to do but daydream.
I know you don't feel the sting in your lips like I do, the ache in your chest (and it's not from the coughing you've had every night).
When you find beauty in the shattering glass that is your shell, and in the slight coldness of the mirror that you so long ago promised to break – then you know that you're a goner, that you wont be coming back without her.
And I know it's wrong, in your eyes, in their eyes - in everything. Its basis, it's essence – it is nothing but unbearable; but I can't do anything about it, society with its borderlines, and me with my own borderline. There are way too many restrictions, and it's about time somebody felt crazy enough to break one of them.
Monotone in technicolor, I strive to see past the lines in my television (static in every channel, as far as I can see) the lines, forming your eyes, your face, your ideology. Giving me something to hope for, giving me something to live for.
And that's why we keep breathing, why we keep rising our heads to see a scorched sky that holds no more beauty, no more hope, no more innocence. But I swear I could see your eyes in it, I could almost make it out….
I must have made a mistake; they are probably looking for me already, the anomaly, the infirmity of this country – in me, in you, in us. One, in technicolor, in monotone, I don't think they care anymore, the color we paint the sky.