PoetBoy

Black and White

I start with a capital,
one digit of darkness cast upon purity,
the perfection of unspoilt whiteness, corrupted
more and more as I go on. What I\'m writing makes sense,
but why am I writing it?
There is no purpose, but my fanciful passion
guides me onwards. It has invaded my sleep now,
how can I sleep?
This pain draining my brain
drags me down. I cannot focus on my life,
when my mind is set on creating a new one,
my heart wants to yearn for it, but it has to beat again.