She was an artist, who drew me into her life.
The way she’d paint my name on her canvas.
The way she swept me away with every blank verse.
But one fact remained,
She drew me into her life only to smudge me into different shades,
Painted my name in watercolour as my name was smeared off the page,
And with every blank verse I fell, plummeting into an uncertain oblivion.
She was an artist,
Who got sick and tired of dead colours,
So she drew colours from broken hearts,
And bruised emotions.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 6:53 AM UTC
She was an artist, who drew me into her life.
The way she’d paint my name on her canvas.
The way she swept me away with every blank verse.
But one fact remained,
She drew me into her life only to smudge me into different shades,
Painted my name in watercolour as my name was smeared off the page,
And with every blank verse I fell, plummeting into an uncertain oblivion.
She was an artist,
Who got sick and tired of dead colours,
So she drew colours from broken hearts,
And bruised emotions.
