I often long to escape this place we call home,
And explore something else
Rather than this gray world we inhabit.
For it is filled to the brim with gray activities,
And gray people,
And gray places.

You may tell me no.
No, you cannot escape this place.
No, you are simply being rash.
No, you cannot just do that.

But, I will tell you no.

For I have dreams,
But not gray dreams like this world tries to limit us to.
I have Technicolor dreams.

These have not been infected,
By the gray, hellbent virus of monotony.
These have been nurtured in the chambers of my skull,
Since I was just a child.
These have grown with me,
And morphed, 
And changed.
And unlike the rest of the gray people,
Mine are in color.

Every thought,
Every feeling,
Every idea,
A different hue.
Changing and blending inside of me,
Creating a chromatic canvas of ingenuity.  

I yearn to paint this world,
With these technicolor dreams of mine.
But I don't,
Because you say to me,
No.

But I know,
That deep down,
In someone's darkest shade of gray, 
Is a minuscule glint of a different tint. 

We have it in all of us,
Those technicolor dreams.
We must simply be brave enough,
To cleanse ourselves of the gray virus,
And let our colors bleed out.

So don't be afraid,
To let these colors seep out,
For this gray world is in need of prismatic people.

Come paint with me.