the whiteness sickens me.
"of the paint?" they ask.
i suppose.
yes.

they shrug and turn a blind eye,
for,
i am insane,
you know.

it's unnatural,
the paint.
it devours the black
lecherous
removing all but its like:
other white specks that dot the page.

oozing slightly,
a permeating ess snaking down the page
in a sick line.

everything's white now.
no shadows.
no color.
no emotion.
no choice.

the paint,
through no visible flaw
is twisted by its falsity.

i can feel it.

and the world remains silent.

my hands are clenched,
fingers tight…
in fear?
in pain?
in anger?

certainly in hopelessness.