I've painted roses on ripped canvas
but the thorns of the rose
just ripped it more.

I've painted roses on ripped canvas
claiming it was art
when it just covered abuse

I've painted roses on ripped canvas
and then just tore it apart
I cant fix this, just start over

I've painted roses on new canvas
and I felt empty.
A change of canvas hasn't changed me.

Say it over and over again
I repeat to myself
In hopes I will heed my own warning

I tell myself to let go
But my heart is the one behind the reins
And it’s dragging me into the swamp

She wears a fake smile
Bearing her perfect white teeth
An illusion i'm only just starting to see past

Because reality is not as pretty as the pictures you paint
Or as your voice when you sing me lies
Ugly is my denial of reality that kept me coming back for more

I've been wishing for you,
wishing on you;
Is this the reason why
my dreams don't come true
because they don't need to?
When you're here
dancing as the pale moonlight
across my shadowed skin;
it's only in the dark
when I can let you in,
and we can see each other
best and in our brightest.
So paint yourself on the canvas of my thoughts;
allow me to be the blank pages you need.
I'll empty myself for you to fill me whole
with this dance of the thirteenth month—
a tribute birthed out of this tune.
When it ends I'll never move again
the same way I did before:
because now you are the echoing pulse of my bloodstream,
and I'm completely anew like the full moon.

Every time I try to tell someone,
Anyone,
It comes rushing through my eyes instead
Let me paint you a picture,
A self-portrait from painful pastels
And punishing paints

Living in a lonely world,
In my lonely mind,
It gets tiring.

I wish someone could see past my fronts.
Look at me;
See a real person,
And not the mask I wear

I know I could take it off
I should
I would
I can't

It's my only defense.

Because if they don't like my mask, it's fake.
But if they hate me, it's too real.

And every time I try to tell you,
It comes pouring from my eyes instead.

Let me wear these sarcastic stripes
and austere arches.
My sorrowful scene.  

This picture isn't pretty-
far from perfect.
But it is me.

On impact, he screams his empty, chilling
scream and cries as his gritty exterior
is washed away by the icy shoreline.
The water seeps in through the cracks
in his skin and burns as it touches
the many fires of hell which dance
so brightly behind the vivid
brown of his eyes. Skin so rich
it's like a painting, the deepest
greens and most intense blues
embedded within his surface. He
is molten with beauty and fear, his hands
laced with the pain of generations.
He was a man of lava and he thawed the lady
of ice, but he is being turned to stone
by the monster she became.

I'm the pen and you're the paper
We combine together
To express one's inner thoughts
To create words and phrases
Still unwritten.
We're inseparable.
- him

I'm the brush and you're the palette
We paint together
To create beautiful artworks,
To add colors
In this grayscale world.
No wonder why we both love arts.
- **her