I don’t like it but I can’t look away
The gore dripping red wet paint
The oily canvass viscera stained
Sick shades of swirling crimson
The artist bleeds what is burning
Blackish blue marks from bruising
Lines etched deeply under her eyes
Thin skin so pale that her veins bleed through
This is her truth the only art that she knew
Swollen spots sporadically cover her flesh
Some were her doing others were
The dark artistry of someone far more disturbed
With every fist with every brutal brushstroke
With every vitriolic word his voice spews
Acrid acid rain and plumes of toxic fumes
With ever horrible day the art turns grey
Pierces her membranes till the last vestiges of
Her once animated identity
Evaporate into a state of insanity
And clumps of paint still cling to the brushes
And the canvass still blushes
But the body is just a broken specter
All art with no spark just bleak black dreams