Color Blind

What is art?

Some say its just a form of emotion.

Others say its a point of being lost in the ocean.

Sinking.

It's an escape.

Whether it's music, poetry, or simple painting,

everyone has a form of art and to it, they pour out their feelings.

This thing we call a get-away,

a mere pleasure, or hiding place is different for each individual.

But for me, you may ask, " Why are you so empty?".

I'd simply reply, "It's quite redundant you see. 

For all eternity, I've been told to pour my heart out in what I love.

So I did.

And now there is nothing left inside of me."

I'm left an empty shell,

with colors in puddles at my feet.

I put on a fake smile and people pass by as they say, 

"Oh look! She's so creative."

But in reality they do not know the way I live.

Creativeness is not a gift.

It's the result of pain.

Art is not something birthed from enjoyment.

It's a torturous gain.

Something not to take lightly.

Only to brush the shattered pieces of the old me back into the mirror.

Cracked, damaged, and unrecongnizable is who I was,

who I am,

and who I will always be.

This "art" is not for me.

No.

It is for you.

Because you don't know the real me.

Showers of rain running across my face, 

but I feel nothing.

I can't laugh.

I can't cry.

There's a burning fire scorching my insides,

leaving nothing behind.

The fire is too strong to be put out.

It just grows.

It lashes out at me in rage,

turning me black with ash.

No more color, no more am I the lively girl.

What a waste.

Just a bitter taste left in your mouth.

You threw me out when you found me broken on the ground.

You didn't try to help me or see if I was okay.

You wouldn't get that close to my face.

No heartfelt goodbye,

just left there to die.

What a happy thought to be left with, "You're useless to me."

Something deeper is going on that can't be explained.

Cannot be tamed.

It's raging on in my left side brain.

Just a thought?

Just a suggestion?

Eating away at my perspective,

botching every clear vision once known is no longer in visual range.

But to you, I might as well be labeled 'Insane'.

Just a cripple, a leper.

Gone is the imagination.

No more dreaming.

Just grey dust puffing from my own black and white nation.

I'm now blind to the color that once freed me.

Some could call me the beast of Frankenstein.

I was once a creative sould, but I was killed.

I died.

You tried saving me, but I became a monster.

Just a sack of bones, reused.

You isolated me outside of your heart when you saw what I molded into.