Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dec 2013
My brush, the sword.
My canvas, the enemy.

I unsheathe my sword and raise it to your throat,
I hold it there for too long, maybe to boast.
Then I swipe across your neck, leaving my mark,
I would feel guilty,
But nobody judges an artist in the park.
Josh Murphy
Written by
Josh Murphy  Dublin
(Dublin)   
530
   Pooja Shah
Please log in to view and add comments on poems