My Black

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My Black

I think of my life,
and I laugh out loud.
Full of friends and laughter,
my days are so filled with fun.
I enjoy it while I can,
but it alwasy seems to fade.
Then the darkness returns,
and I am alone again.
Until the next day,
I see my friends again.
Life is bright fleetingly enough,
that I'm not sure it really was.
But I think I hope for color,
I'm again unsure.
Do I really need color?
Or is black enough for me?
It's all I've seen for so long,
I barely remember color.
Darker than the black of night,
darker than the black of death,
darker than you can imagine.
Or do you know what I mean?
Have you lived in darkness too?

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If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) American poet.

ThatOneChick’s Poems (54)

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