nothing i write
truly explains how i really feel
my fingertips cant find words strong enough
nothing bold enough
cant find anything loud enough
all these words i write
each letter just sits on the surface
none of these notes bringing a breakthrough
nothing that i paint
really shows what i'm seeing
my brush stroke just doesn't carve deep
none if the colors vibrant enough
pictures refusing to form out of nothing
even after shredding the canvas with my fingernails
and screaming at the scenes in my mind
against the walls of my upbringing
nothing starves an artist more
than being a watered down version
of everything she has the ability to be
nothing drives her more insane
than hearing her own scream
but nothing audible escaping her lips.
YOU ARE READING
Call It What You Want [A Poetry Collection]
Poetry[PUBLISHED WORK AVAILABLE ON AMAZON] This is for the misfits. the heavy hearts. the broken minds and the lost souls. this is for the bruised lovers with tainted skin. the options left behind, not good enough to be put first. this is for the readers...
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