feeble ribs
caressing porcelain  
hearts

ink dipped tongue
every word he
uttered was
poetry

she painted him
with hues of gray
leaving a piece
of her crumbling
soul in each
stroke

his sleepless nights
spent with
pencil smudged
fingers
trying to find
the words
to describe her

they were 2:00 am
lovers
with blemished
hearts trying
to find love
in each other

~ am

She was
A word artist, delicately stringing letters together on a long beaded necklace of a poem
She was
An escape artist, writing to numb herself of the pain that incessantly stabbed her in places that should not feel,
Her heart, her mind, her body was corrupted...
She was
an Artist
Who felt more than the World should have allowed her to Feel
She carried the weight of the World on her shoulders, every day becoming weaker instead of Stronger
She was
an Artist
Who couldn't put the pen down

I have the gift of art,but I can't put it to good use.

Creativity blurs my mind but when I touch a piece of paper with a pencil,a pen,a brush it still remains empty.

I'm too scared to even attempt to let the art flow,because I know my paintings,sketches,scribbled messed up drawings would only land me in handcuffs