Rainbows and Butterflies. If Only.

Black, and White.

The world is black and white and completely painted in a dull, emotionless grey. Is it wrong to feel that way?

I'd like to think that there is always a clear, specific answer to any and all problems. Though, I know there isn't. The maniacal laughter in my head, it used to be mine, now it's his. And it persecutes me. 

That's what is black and white. That the laughter is there. The grey is how he got a hold of it, isn't it? Oh, I don't understand anymore.

So what if the world is black and white, or if it's grey. It still makes a rainbow bland and distasteful. At least if it's black and white, there's some variety.

I wonder what other people think.

What's going on inside their heads?

Is it the same as is what is going on inside my head?

How can I understand what my friends do not?

How can my friends understand what I cannot?

Neuroscience, that's what I'll go into, maybe my questions will be solved.

Solved

If everything could be quick and easy,

Maybe I wouldn't have this insanity.

Every question has an answer, plain as day.

Every lie has only one truth to give away.

The rainbows hanging above our heads,

Would be black and white like the dead.

Black eyes, that have eroded.

White bones, that have exploded.

Into the poison in the fragile air.

Dripping off our tongues, beware.

We are the poison that painted the rainbow,

And I'm sure we did it just for show.

We are not innocent or pure,

Not while there is war, I'm sure.

Blood on our hands, sliding down our throats.

The black coal that is our gloat.

The paint of stain, that is our sin.

The white that is our mark to never win.

We died, we are long dead.

There is no rainbow over our head.