Cracks in the concrete create the illusion of black
the only darkness that managed to creep into this brightly colored corner of Philadelphia city.
Rainbow painted parlors tuck themselves into the twisting alleys that speckle the grid of the gayborhood
the gaybohood
it has an energy, an enigmatic hum of motion and mystery
shrouded in hot pinks and electric yellows
shaded in hues of metallics and neons
And I can't help but wonder how the rest of the world can go on
in it's humdrum mediums of monotony and colorless colors
I wonder who has it more backwards
the dull lifeless lives of those who live in bland realities
or the ones who color their homes in hues of excitement
demanding exilheration, enthusiasm, elation in the every day
paint over what seems mundane because they'd rather remain forever in a blissful ignorant rainbow of smiles and hands holding hands
than face the fact that life commands a certain amount of subdued severity
and that bright colors distract from necessary clarity
that life isn't all butterflies, and psychedelic song birds
but I wonder to myself, who has it more backwards?
those who spend their days living by laws they didn't write
enlisted in battles that someone else thought they should fight
drumming through the torturous hours of day waiting for the blackness of night
so they can escape into their techno colored clandestine dreams
sleep in the forbidden fantasies that, awake, their conscience can't admit it hides
relief as reality obediently slides back to leave room for visions of imagination
still, it's waiting at the other end of the dreams duration
to take back it's prisoners
I wonder, do the inhabitants of the gayborhood dream in dreams of colorless monotony?
Do they secretly long for the harsh hues of realism and reality?
Coud it be that there simply is no in between
opposite ends of the spectrum helplessly ensnared in the stubborn traps of those who refuse to admit that their lives are split between
where they have chosen
and where they would choose to be
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