Why is it so hard for me to live on the lands of Black and White?
Why am I always trying to smudge the borders?
Stretch the boundaries, erase the drawn lines?
Extend my stay, outstay my welcome in the rivers of Grey?
Where I'm never entirely evil, but never genuinely good;
Where I'm forever dodging bullets,
Never really shooting them down, or staying out of their way;
Where I'm constantly questioning my conscience,
Trying to reason with it, make deals with it;
Sometimes pure and straightforward,
Sometimes slimy and under the bridge.
But the truth is slippery, isn't it?
What's true today could be a lie in eleven days
What's truly true is the intention behind my action,
But who really looks at intentions, when the actions are greyish?
Maybe I should break down the grey matter into black and white again;
Try to see what's real and what's not;
What's true and what's not;
What's white and stays white.
How easy the words and colors sound on paper,
All broken down into neat little pixels of black and white.
The struggle is keeping them that way - apart and separate,
And not let a wet brush come near them.
Alas the power and pain!
Of being the painter of my own life.