Pencils, pastels, pens,
and black ink.
Sharp knives, razors, blades
and red "ink".
I'm an artist and everything
is
my
canvas.
My world is more
black and red,
rather than black and white;
because what's the point of life
if you don't have a mess to clean up?
Spilled blotches of reds
arraid in the white cracks of the canvas.
A beautiful masterpiece
in the eyes of the mad.
But I need to stop
and save my ink for another day.
Because for some odd reason
I always find my self painting
when I'm sad.
It's too bad,
this piece was one of my best.
Depression aside.
Let me clean up my floor,
I mean canvas.
And put my knife away,
I mean paint brush.
And get the band aids out,
because not everybody likes my art.
They say beauty is only skin deep,
but really,
I've made it to the bone.