The world is a stage
Shakespeare said
He was correct
To an extent—
The world is staged
Your true colors
Contained within
Inhumane bounds
The brush dips into the paint
Dances across the bare canvas
Seems so free, free to be
The artist you wished to be
Yet the edges of the canvas
Contain you
Your true colors
Still waiting to be revealed
Subject to criticism
I found that, the hard way
I saw the doom
Of the human race
Arguing over insignificant disagreements
Such trivial things!
We were fools—
Or so I thought,
And then came the
‘Good Samaritan’ that
The man saw, you know when
When I was in trouble
When my life seemed to be
Well
Slipping away, out of my hands
In both ways
And I had no control
No power over who I was
There are many
You must see
Many Good Samaritans when you
Need them
And I found that
The edge of the canvas
Is not
The edge of hope
The edge of the world
The end of hope, the world
So when in doubt
Look about, I say
Look about for the good in
Humanity
If you search with enough heart
You will find that good
If you look
In yourself
For those true colors…
When is your imagination
Your only restraint?
I looked to the world
Spherical, yet boundless
How we have swept our paintbrush
Across it
Good and bad
And I find no doubt
Left in my mind
That these colors we have,
Inborn and unstoppable,
Are not left to the jurisdiction
Of our fellows
But to ourselves
Our true colors
And so the answer to that
Well
Is to be decided
By you