the middle grey

i
i need to write
i need to write about the dark
i need to write about the light
but i find the middle grey
its gets so frustratingly in the way
with cloudy currents that neither sing
of love or hate or pleasure or pain
but an entangled knot that weaves them all together
in some horrible, wonderful knot i cannot split in twain

and i am caught in a spin in the places i would go straight
caught in a complete and utter lack of any blessed fate
as if life were but a slow and colorful drowning
to the bottom of a realization far too late

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