Black Panther-

Pushed into the corner
Of the hobnailed boot,
Pushed into the corner of the
"I-don't-want-to-die" cry,
Pushed into the corner of
"I don't want to study war no more"
Changed into "Eye for eye,"
The panther in his deepest boldness
Wears no disguise,
Motivated by the trust
Of the oldest
~Langston Hughes

"I don't want to die," the whisper was barely heard, lost among the sea of other hopes and wishes never to be fulfilled. Pale hands were held up to the light, scuntinzing eyes searched for the stain of blood which should have marred their flawless surface. Searching for the crimson that had been so easily spilled for so many different reasons.
"I don't want....." the voice trailed off, taken over by another voice, stronger and yet with the same hidden flaw. Tears and sorrow raged deep with anger and hate.
"I don't want to kill anymore," Facecs upon facecs upon glass flashed through the air. Screams and cries of dying, dead and those who would live only to later die of a broken heart. Eyes that gazed, but did not see for their were fixated on the past that would forever haunt.
"I don't want to see anymore," the voice commented, almost frankly with the tinge of war-sadness. Didn't want to see, never wished to see the things that nightmares are made off. The dirt that flew thick with blood and flesh. Bodies piled on bodies of the dead. Blind. Wishes to be blind.
"I don't want to cry," a third voice whispered. And yet, all three voices were the same, the Voices of Tragedy. The voices of innocence that was long lost and longing to be found again.
"I want to be pure again," bloody hands lifted towards the sky, begging to be cleansed.

Gray was the color of blindness, staring endlessly into the stormy night for something never there. Red was the color of sorrow, for red was for blood. The colors ran across the canvas, racing and trickling in rivers and flows. Gray on red with blue on black with green. Swift brush strokes stole across the white expansion changing the landscape to mimic a sad twisted parody of life. Words were hidden in the picture, words like 'love' and 'hate'. Together, but always different.
"You paint beautifully," someone commented. The artist heard not of the comment, but rather the tone. Envy, and jealously took their places among the green foliage and trees.
"Do you see the tragedy?" the painter turned, brown eyes questioning. Short strands of hair that was not straight, but not curly and hung limp in the humidity were tucked behind small ears. A single earring caught the sun from below her ear. Paint crusted fingers twitched, sending a spray of multicolored paint across the landscape.
"I see, only color," came the reply. Laughter met this reply, a bitter sort of laughter that stung, but was also from an insidee stinging with regret. The painter-girl held up her right hand, which had been stained with the reds and blacks of the acrylic paint.
"Do you see the red? Surely you must," the painter mocked. The commentator stepped back, slightly aghast at the fiercee expression of wild devotiong and bitter longing. Intense emotions poured from the painting now, screaming full of feelings. The red dripped, slowly, softly, never staining only covering for now.
"I see...the red..." The painter girl smiled then, lowering her hand and turning back to the painting, streaks of yellow for happiness, and gold for pleasure.

The brushes lay before her, like a marching beaten down army. Paint stained the handles and would always be there, she preferred to think of them as 'specially marked' rather then 'broken' and 'stained'. Fingers hovered above the brushes. What did she wish to be today? A princess in disguise? A warrior? At last thin brown fingers connected with the coarse wood of a thin elegant brush. No, she would be a lady of the warrior class. Beautiful, deadly and above all way to consuming. Another blank canvas was drawn out, color was laid out in a palatte.
"I need a name," the girl smiled to herself, a drew a line of black across the canvas. Soon a line of red paralled that.
"I have always liked the name Anastasia," she mused to herself, red swirls for resembled rose petals, and green for the stem. Angry dark thorns and leaves were added. A rose lay on two lines, one red and the other black. No expression was in the painting, frustrated lines of blue were added. The girl lost herself then, fingers drooping and the brbush held limply. Darker red was used to place a screaming face in the middle of the rose. And then tears, that would never be noticed unless one knew they were there.
"People are afraid," the girl murmered, drawing more lines that connected into an eeried shadow of a spider's web that stretched across the left side of the painting. Or maybe it was a mirror with a broken edge.
"People are blind. Open their eyes," she did not move her lips, but the words flowed from her brush.
"Show them...." the brush flourished once more, a bright and dark at once. Shadows with a bright face that is locked away forever in them, and in the foreground, a single rose lying like betrayl and love.
"Their heart's desire,"