you shouldnt of said that
It did not go down well
No now everyone is here
She is happy
Painter is not,
The silent water colours drip on to the bed, tinted the masterpiece a reck.
Only left are the brush marks left in red, over the purples and the blues, as the greens become greys.
We all know pain.
Work too much on the art that you over do it, then the painter has no control over the paints, the colours have found false freedom.
Imagination is influenced by nature surroundings. Nothing is ever real.
My hands stranggling the brush, the paints raining black destroying it’s own beauty.
This ugly artwork is too wrecked to be fixed; a new canvas is needed for show.
That canvas, self destrucing, you’re destruction, you destroyed, you murderer.
There was so much gold im here, now you’re touch is ice ‘nd I shiver not of cold but with every passionate fire that desires to burn with every term you’re existence still abides by.
Do a favour to the misunderstood poet who has taken the persona of a door mat, welcoming, knowing it’s fate, trampled by everyone and it’s own existice is to get dirty from the messy.
We know no else, I had a place of belonging. But now… That something, crushed me. When all ur intentions were beautifully kind, a blissful attempt at honest (possibly) support.
Yet now a wish to spit on your thumbs to escape that disgusting hand fed line.
It’s not the canvas, the painter, the art piece.
It’s something else entirely