Frames of suffering and agony,
A canvas of pain, a soul's symphony.
Each brushstroke a scream, each color a cry,
A masterpiece of torment, born to deny.
The artist's hands, they tremble and shake,
As they wield the pen, the instrument that makes,
The lines of despair, the curves of pain,
A portrait of anguish, forever to remain.
The colors bleed, the ink seeps deep,
A reflection of the heart that does creep,
In dark recesses, where shadows play,
The demons of the mind hold sway.
The frames of suffering, they hold tight,
The agony that cannot be erased from sight,
A reminder of the wounds that won't heal,
A testament to the pain that's real.
Yet, in the midst of this dark despair,
A glimmer of hope, a light that's rare,
A chance to confront, to face the pain,
To find a way out, to break the chain.
The frames of suffering, they may remain,
But perhaps, just perhaps, there's a way to sustain,
The weight of the world, the crushing load,
And find a way to heal, to let the heart unfold.
