Sunset turn the sky a light crimson,

the same color of my wrist and thighs.

They sing the song about the blades as the brush and the wrist as the canvas but they forgot to mention the mind.

Its the paint  spreading the pain all around,

coloring our thoughts a deep shade of blue.

What about the heart?

It being the orchestrator of it all. 

Giving you a place to store every creation and every cry...


if these are the tools we use to create our destructive pieces then who is the painter?


The ones who take priority in making my painting a disaster.

This poem is about: 





How do you like it?


or do you not?

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