If I was a book,
and the first sentence said:
“This isn’t life”
would all the pages be read?

If one feeling was right
and one thought was wrong,
are we supposed to be real
or are we meant to seem strong?

If my eyes flash red
every time I blink,
are we always supposed to say
just what we don’t think?

If we are trapped
inside our own head,
are we just expected to hold
all the tears we should shed?

If the papers were not
only black and white,
would our colorful thoughts
be in everything we write?

If we could paint
the clouds in the sky,
are they the darkest of grays,
or are they just too high?

If the world was against
the words we speak,
would you be afraid
or would you let your mind leak?

If dancing was a privilege,
and music was illicit,
would you still sway to our favorite song
and be my complicit?

If I was a book,
would all the pages be read?
Would the ending be spoiled,
if the title was “dead”?