Unpainted

I'm a black paper.
It doesn't mean I'm dark,
Not empty,
Not blank.

I have all the shades in me.
They are in perfect balance.
There is no shade more than the others.

Sometimes people try to paint me.
"Poor poor human",
They say;
"Not saveable."

No one can paint me.
Colours aren't really real.
In darkness they are all black.

They rip me into pieces,
But as long as there's a tiny piece left
I'm alive.
I'm doing just fine.
I'm not special.
All colours make black in the end.

Just because I'm plain
It doesn't mean
It doesn't cause me pain;
The world.

But don't worry.
When I run out of pieces,
Cannot be ripped anymore
I'm thrown into the fire

"Poor poor human"
They whisper;
"Has gone to hell."

But you can always paint another paper.