Contrast.

We find our lost parts in the most obvious places,

Like finding bundles of socks in the cat's basket
Or pieces of our coloured faces in the sink every morning.
They say that the artist is crazy, and so are we
He paints colours and we, black and white, over the skin that already hides too much of its weight.
The storm may have broken down the walls of our houses
But the doors are still locked and inside the rooms, we're still suffocating
Like birds with broken wings inside an open cage
And we sing a song that colours the clouds black
But the rain is white and a part of me dies
Everytime I see the thin lines dividing the rainbow.

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Seems to be an examination of the way our minds limit our ability to truly appreciate life. Some really great images in this one. Belongs in a literary journal.

PS: next to last word in line 5 should be possessive, not a contraction.

[The Divergent Poet]

Thank you very much! I finally feel confident enough about my writing :´)
And the word was a typo! Thanks for pointing it out.