eyes devour tasteless words
sprung up from the depths
conniving little snitches
Her nails twist and twitch
dripping in, with disgust
sipping on the attics secrets
                   it leaks
      and
                   it reeks
She sits like a falling queen
bordered with flaking fake gold
the lips crumbling dry
She had no tone left
caked in old skin
many Women scream 'poor Her'

Words hurt they say,
but the feeling of them being etched
is akin to new found pain
a pen would be easier,
staining my skin, in-erasable
the pencil is more dull
perhaps then will I finally feel smart
it feels like an unwanted tattoo.

I was charcoal drawings, you were taking camera snaps,
Frozen moments, mosquitos stuck in amber traps, handicapped,
You were Polaroids, stretching out a memory,
I'm only broken since my etching now will never be.
My work might feel saturated when I get all "introspection-y"
But I'm so exposed, we're all contrasted and you look like silhouettes to me,
I try not to let them get to me, those polarising statements,
I bite my thumbnails inside a lonely, idle basement,
And I shudder when I think what state that time will lapse the world into,
It lends a resolution, the pics'll frame you and I'll persecute.

You showed me your drawings,
And to me they said
a thousand words.

I, on the other hand,
showed you my songs,
And they painted a picture for you.

It's funny how we show each other what we mean.
Even if we use different mediums,
Our message is the same:

I love you.
I always will.
I always have.

My pencil drags
leaving marks on the page
I don't pick it up, in fear of

Lossing my thoughts
my mind
my eyes

But I put it down, and pick up my pen
dragging that too
across the page
smearing ink
afraid of making that one mistake

The one mistake that ruins the pice
the one that ruins the work
my heart

I then put that down too
and chose my colors
so many combinations can be made,

green blue black
red orange pink
silver white black
purple black gold

But it can only be three colors,
or else it looks too cluttered
to messy
too unfinished

I choose my colors, and then
they too get dragged across the page
Mixing occurs
blending,

and I worry about the mistakes again
Anxiety spikes in my mind
my heart is pumping
but my hands are steady

And I repeat my steps, over
and over
and over and over and over
until I get It just right

And finally, I step back
I look at the paper
I laugh, I smile
finally, no mistakes

It's beautiful, but not enough so
so I try again
in an endless loop
of pencils, pens, and color