Artists are often
broken people
using the fragments of themselves
to create something new
and although
being healed
feels so complete
sometimes i want to be broken again
sometimes i want open wounds
so i can use the blood
to paint sunsets
so i can use the torn off pieces of skin as a canvas
so i can carve
masterpieces with the jagged bones left behind
but I can't bring myself to break my own heart in the name of Art

remember that time in september
when the moon was spinning
when the moon was shaking off its blues
when you reached up to taste some
and you woke up with the chills
and you said put me under the sun

it was the first time we laughed after many days
it was the last time we exhaled jet-black giggles
picking away at our severe-face syndrome
we were taking form
finally
we were becoming you and i and you said,
that's a heavy thing to be...
when you're coming from nothing.

It’s the color in a blossomed flower
It’s the touch of the softest silk
It’s the sight of the ripest fruit
It’s the taste of the sweetest vine
It’s the feeling of soft luxury

It’s the color of the bruises on my skin
It’s the touch of an unwanted hand
It’s the sight of a hazy night sky
It’s the taste of a bitter poison
It’s the feeling of entrapment

It’s the melancholy color purple that fills my sad dark world