white.

They

All seem prettier, brighter,

softer, newer, better…

Apart together,

together apart

We the coy,

the ugly

keeping to ourselves

New

but old

Unused

but stale

“ Mushroom ” territory

Dying to experience,

to be bewildered and engulfed by our being.

Only ever useful when pushed aside,

crumpled,

wasted,

misused,

abused,

disposed of…

We are never deserving

Never worthy of any existence

Even when it is being confined in four corners of dark and immobility

Never worthy enough of any sweet, 

nothing

that comes our way

Wrapped in words that that could build castles that slight winds could crumble

And if we ever do believe we’d only be as foolish as the fool that those words did mumble

Only Chance and Fate are obligated to us

Delusions. 

Our sterile grandeur deems us weak,

where we believe we are strong

Seething through transparently,

Apparently never seen,

or heard

All we’ll ever be is white wax crayon,

Rejected,

Wishing we could bleed a new colour onto the page.