You subconsciously painted me for so long,
that when it was no longer your job,
I took back my paint brush and continued the deed for you.
My color scheme only resembling death and sadness,
and I realized I don't want to paint anymore,
so I threw my canvas on the ground,
only to find that it tore.
I've damaged my canvas, and this time it's because of me.
I did this to myself.
How could I be a work of art
if you weren't the one who was painting me?
How could such an artist just leave his masterpiece,
just leave his half done project in the dust?
What was the point of trying to recreate your piece,
if I was already so ****** up?

That day you picked up that paint brush,
and splattered all of the blacks,
the grays,
the blues all over me.
You painted until there was none of me left,
I was completely covered,
but see you thought you were simply protecting me from you
when in reality you were ruining
me.
and I wasn't going to stop you.

You helped me see the world with color,
when everything around me seemed to be gray.
My laughter I heard that didn't mean anything for a long time
finally had a purpose.
And I promised myself
that I wouldn't let you control the colors that were
painted on my canvas.
But the thing is,
I handed you the paintbrush,
waiting to see what beautiful thing you would draw for me,
and beautiful it was.

I thought
that our story would
never have an ending,
and that's not a lie,
this love story
that we've created
is an eternal
cycle of me,
loving you
and you,
loving her, then me.

This is what you see when
you look through the eyes
of the broken,
the red dripping down
nobody around
you feel tears
on your cheeks
this goes on for weeks
you put a smile on your face
just for a few hours
and you listen to them call you a coward
you think of all of the words that
have gone unspoken
this is what happens
through the eyes of the broken.