I spy with my little eye something that is red;
it grows and blooms sans effort, but with pain it blooms instead.
A paintbrush lined with silver and a crusted rust on top,
this art is like no other, for there's just no way to stop.
Once you start you think control is key,
that balance and composure and a lot of secrecy
are perfect distractions for when you need to bleed
without anyone privy to what's hiding under sleeves.
Little did you know, though,
that once the sting crescendos,
the pain eventually plateaus
while the silver paintbrush ebbs and flows,
taking with it innocence and scarlet droplets
and oh so many secrets.
When tolerance for this gets too far out of hand,
and the artist searches for yet another brand,
a new media to experiment and explore yet again
her canvas is the wall, and her brush a bullet to her head.
YOU ARE READING
Sad poems
Poetry"Hangman is great it teaches you that by saying the wrong things you could end somebody's life " Suicide poems and more
