Your body is your canvas.
You never keep it safe,
you adorn it with scars
of lost loves, of lost dreams, of all your burnt-out stars.
Your lifestyle's your easel,
the only thing that keeps you high,
be it the days when you just can't stay still,
or those when you shatter and cry.
Your thoughts are acrylics,
shades of melancholy, maroon and black.
They characterize your essence,
all the hopes and falls you've stacked.
Your words are your brushes,
imagine how many stories they tell.
With every sigh you define
another line within your personal hell.
Do not lose your ambition, don't give up your health,
for you are not just an artist, you are art itself.
