I see her quite often, you know

She hangs around a small apartment
decorated with little potted plants
and empty coffee mugs
she smiles while taking inside
the clothes left outside to dry
she wears a comfortable jumper
the air around her is warm
and she smells so sweet
her soul is bright but scarred
she's been broken before
but her heart is still capable
of so much love 
So much more human
So much more real
and truer
than this
mess of thoughts
and blood gone bad
in a bunch of rotting meat
with shame stuck to skin
like dirt

An artist in name fact and form
I keep on creating a reality that's torn
from the Truth and its Lies
that forced me still to stay blind
with no passion nor time
to mind the withering eyes
in my portraits
But artist I stay
even when my brushes lay
on a white cold place
and my muse has died
through the shapes that she tried
to take on and survive
so she walked out the door
and the colours are no more
with my hands painting still
the lonely emptiness of my core