Poetry

The Blood Stained Canvas.

He paints me in shades of blue's and purple's.
The color runs deep in his art and on me.
You see me walking down the street.
I am purple and blue.
They say his work is beautiful.
I guess that makes me beautiful.
Should I be proud of his work.
Or should I cry from these works.
I wonder what painting he will paint next.
Will you paint my blood pouring from my chest?
Will you paint a bullet hole?
Will you show my mother so I can be remembered?
I'll be remembered as the tainted girl.
If you see me in a art museum burn the place to the ground.
Paint a canvas with me walking out of the burning building.
Pour blood on it.
Every painting I'm in is covered in blood.
And so is his hands.
I died but the art survived.
Kill it.
Kill every piece.