Black ink thrown onto a canvas
Art is a betrayal of the senses.
The thoughts you think only leave you senseless.
Like an apprentice, endless, defenceless and depressed.
A hole inside a whole mind of a complete mess.
An image of emptiness can never be painted,
But painstaking hearts are willing to try this,
For they have waited for this long,
For you to write their wrongs in songs
And cure the curse of verse, chorus, verse.
Release the words or remain entrapped,
Hidden in the dark beneath the mask.
True remorse I lack,
Because of a reminder to self:
Don’t look at the sword in your back.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
Black ink thrown onto a canvas
Art is a betrayal of the senses.
The thoughts you think only leave you senseless.
Like an apprentice, endless, defenceless and depressed.
A hole inside a whole mind of a complete mess.
An image of emptiness can never be painted,
But painstaking hearts are willing to try this,
For they have waited for this long,
For you to write their wrongs in songs
And cure the curse of verse, chorus, verse.
Release the words or remain entrapped,
Hidden in the dark beneath the mask.
True remorse I lack,
Because of a reminder to self:
Don’t look at the sword in your back.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
