Bleed.
Blood all over my floor, blood all over my white towels. These pencil sharpeners once seen as the extender of life of creative tools, now seen as the tool itself. The tool that brings out color. The color red. The tool that brings feeling. The feeling of pain. The tool that brings art. The form of scars. If only my weak hands could bare the full beauty. If only they had the strength. If they did, more color, more feeling, more beauty. Maybe relief, maybe peace. Maybe freedom. The color could spread farther. If only I had the strength. Sleep and rest. Final rest.
YOU ARE READING
A Perspective
Non-FictionThe thoughts and prespectives of an unordinary mind amongst others
