Alone standing in canvas
Painted, and painted over;
they have made me their
simpatico play toys.

My flesh tender from
their eraser burn embers.
Heart diluted from
their white washed tears.

I shouldn't spill my ink
across the pages,
knowing that these masterpieces
are just temporary stages.

They'll toss me limply
into my disorganized pen collection,
after they have robbed me of my
poetic affections.

No one should spill
their tempestuous monologues
to people without the same sincerity,
because it can **** them.
At least, it's been killing me.