poems by nick

red paint

when I was in art class,

I was painting,

it was a poppy,

a messy one,

but the poppy still stood.

I stood up,

knocking over 

the red paint.

I admired the look,

it was almost beautiful.

I refused to change my pants,

embracing the red mess,

on my pants,

on my thighs.

now the red paint is permanent,

it leaves scars,

its beautiful seeing

the red paint

spew from my legs,

with a help from a blade, 

of course.

its just paint though,

right?