I am a swipe of coarse paint
smudged and softened
by curious fingertips
that shade and shape me
and hang me helplessly
on a wall
I am the color of the sky
when flurries of snow
sprinkle the streets
with no regards
to the shoulder-racking shivers
they bring along
I am a dusty book
in the corner of the library
with a broken spine
and I lay torn and tattered
from too much use
or perhaps too little
I am the empty shell
of a person
who has been drained
of their butterflies
and want nothing more
than to feel something
rather than an abundance
of nothing
and nothing at all
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
I am a swipe of coarse paint
smudged and softened
by curious fingertips
that shade and shape me
and hang me helplessly
on a wall
I am the color of the sky
when flurries of snow
sprinkle the streets
with no regards
to the shoulder-racking shivers
they bring along
I am a dusty book
in the corner of the library
with a broken spine
and I lay torn and tattered
from too much use
or perhaps too little
I am the empty shell
of a person
who has been drained
of their butterflies
and want nothing more
than to feel something
rather than an abundance
of nothing
and nothing at all
