A/N: I was bored and got inspired to write a fic by my own, old poem. XD yeah, WTF?
Summary: It was a melody of muted colors and lingering touches, or maybe it was a feeling unnamed, because his thoughts remained simple and unchanged.
You seek light, you seek warmth
like a moth the fire draws you near
what you need
is not what you want.
Betrayed by your own mind,
broken you're not
a doll with its head torn off
you dye the rainbows grey.
And if there's no light in the morning
and if the book you're reading has no words
you'll find no answers
here.
Sometimes, Kurt forgot Dalton was more than a cage, sometimes, he forgot he was more than a bird, and those were the days when the sun rising in the horizon was dull with no light. It was those days when the books he read had no words, the songs he heard had no melodies and the lyrics he sang had no meaning.
It was then, when he sat there for hours and wondered: What is it that makes person an individual?
What makes me an individual (here)?
Somedays, he could come up with an answer and somedays, he forgot the question before he managed to.
And he walked the endless hallways; and there was seas of welcoming faces; and the doors were large, heavy and made of wood; and everything there was just a shade darker. Everytime he heard a loud noise or heard someone laugh out loud, he sartled, waiting for an impact or insult or fist that never came. Everytime and everyday - it was a constant reminder that he was in a wrong place, unfamiliar and new and foreign. And even though nothing ever happened, it didn't make him relax at all: simply more anxious and reversed, on edge.
Kurt felt like a doll, old and battered, that the child never really liked and finally got rid of, throwing it somewhere else. He felt like a doll with its head torn off. His clothing was changed, he was played with differently, and he was exactly the same but for his thoughts, mind, head. And that changed everything from his looks to his singing.
Or would have, if he was given change to sing, but apparently, caged bird isn't allowed to. A bird stuck in wrong school, wrong hallways, wrong clothes.
No red or yellow or purpe or green or violet or pink. Just rainbows, dyed grey and white and black.
And maybe he's just a caged bird, or a headless doll, but that's okay.
Maybe he has nothing left of what made him an individual.
It's okay.
Kurt really, really tries to convince himself so, anyway. He's too good at lying to himself, really, because the next thing he knows, he's smiling and laughing and ignorant.
But not singing, not free, not prepared.