The painter had lost his muse.
He had no fucking idea what he would do.
The exquisite paradise he lived in slowly started to melt.
All the colors started to mixed.
Awfully.
The red mixed with green.
The orange with the blue.
The purple with the yellow.
The lovely melodies turned into horrifying echoes.
His paintings turned dark.
Hell-like.
They represented anger.
Confusion.
Sadness.
The pain kept fucking him up mercilessly.
The painter had lost his muse.
Left with no ideas to pursue.
No song to sing along to.
The painter had lost it all.
And made art that showed how fucked up he was.
YOU ARE READING
February Ashes
Poésie❝From an everlasting flame, to a pile of ashes in the forest❞ A bunch of poems about how he met, fell in love with, desired, missed, broke, was broken by, hated, lost and got over the deepest love he ever felt. most impressive rank: #1 in poems.
