Ripped ribbons scattered aimlessly,
with fractured cups, dirt and dust
pink pearly acetone just won't be enough
to erase the evidence of you.
With forced confessions,
spilled out all past indiscretions,
and cursed vindications and blood
splattered like a musty revenge.
Hand print caresses that show
Polaroid prints all faded and jaded
like the illusion of us.
It was desperate fingers
that clung to the railings
but the force of gravity meant I had to let go.
Hope had revived me
Like water to my parched throat
my oasis is the desert
All my horrid words were revoked.
Yet nothing will ever be enough
to surgically remove
our open bleeding wounds.
I must tend to the injured,
Leave alone the wielder
Knife still in hand
How did it come to this?
I missed your voice
so much it made me cry
yet after I heard
it made everything worse
Mourning a loss that was not mine
I still love you
but it burns
until I have to take my hand off
the all consuming flame.
My teardrops cannot pay the price,
or eradicate the past in peoples minds
Will I forever be beholden to this guilt that now defines me?
Too many skin graphs to hide the scarred tissue underneath.
All paths lead me back to here.
I'm helpless to watch your ghost
Linger,you still linger.
i'd never thought that I would lose my virginity on a small couch in my friends living room.
but then again.
i'm not one to think about things, just rush into them like a stubborn headed hammer, breaking things along the way.
id never thought that I would run out of the house with purple, naked feet crushing the ice underneath me like small bones, in the middle of a black December silence.
and it was nice seeing a 2 am silhouette at the end of my road, cigarette in hand like always, your breath a steady stream of white, drowning me in an ocean of nicotine.
and I was high and you were drunk,
and I slipped and kissed your wine tinted lips,
and our skin made a forest fire, as we tangled ourselves in the crackle of a wood burning stove,
and the silent tread of snow on the sleeping town.
I'm loved by a great man,
And he is mine and only mine.
I am very smart,
And I am aware of it.
Don't even think of crossing me.
My eyes burn holes
In those who won't
Give me what I want.
But I'll never be happy.
I'm a martyr,
And a patron saint.
I've been used and thrown away.
My first girlfriend tried to die,
And it was all my fault.
Everyone knew it.
My virginity was stolen
On a pool table at 1 am.
I lost the child I created
With the love of my life.
I knew every swear I know now
At the age of three.
I don't know who's hit me harder.
I'll never let go.
I'm a martyr.
I'll be a patron saint.
"Broken and lame.
The world bleeds colors for a girl who can only see shades of grey
She sees in particular 50 shades
She walks with pain and dignity
The type of dignity that screams
the type of dignity that is silenced by tired fingers with a smack to the lips
She is a walking contradiction
Her conscience fumes with words that only she can hear.
They paint her canvas with colors so dim that it is surprisingly impossible to hide.
She wants the world to know of her pain; she is seeking.
Acceptance but Approval.
It is with precision that she is
It is with precision that she is
Her canvas is a replica of Da' Vinci
Carefully crafted so that enough smiles can hide her tears
She blooms with effortless screams.
She does not walk to be seen
But to be heard
And she cries
Only because her comfortable canvas has now been brushed with
And for the first time in a long time
The world bled Red for a girl who is used to seeing grey.
She can not find words to express what's been drawn.
She cannot lift a finger to the skin she has..
-Galleries of displayed art
she is seeing 50 shades of colors
Not only on herself but on other's
she stops in the middle of the street
Her pupils look at the ground blurry as she falls sobbing.
She pleads for grey-
As if the color would respond.
"Please, I'm sorry"
Mutes the women and paints
A new canvas on her naked body
"Anything but red"
The woman said.
"If you wish for grey,
stop painting red"
The woman opened her eyes,
looked at her stained knuckles,
opened her shackled hand,
Scoped her Canvas,
Felt the delusional ground,
Her mind screamed of colors.
RED RED RED
"Put the brush down,
this is not Art."
|And she did|