You can see paint stains on all of my clothes, in my hair, hell, even on my worn out blue converse.
I am constantly drawing all over my hands, that have smudged pen and ink all over them.
You see all of my sketch books and loose papers all over my room the first time I bring you home.
You chuckle at me the next day when I have charcoal smudges all over my face, instead of 'pretty girl' makeup.
Yes I am messy
And all over the place
And unstable.
But hell, I am an artist.
YOU ARE READING
A Little Poetry
PoetryJust a little poetry that I wrote in the darkness of my room WARNING This will most likely be depressing Sorry
