It starts out a pure white.
Nothing damaging the canvas.
Destroying it into a colored mess.
For now, you allow it to stay pure.
Since it starts out a pure white.
But it changed when you grabbed the brush.
You crushed the bristles into the paint.
Trying to gather the colors, you smear the liquid onto the canvas.
The pure white vanishes.
Since it changed when you grabbed the brush.
Little by little, the white fades.
It becomes a jumble of colors.
One big mess you call art.
Its not art.
Its a painted canvas.
Covered in your fears and doubts.
Your rage and regrets.
Everything you hate.
Since little by little, the white fades.
YOU ARE READING
Dark Poems/Short Stories
HorrorI decided to make this a poem and short story book since someone suggested I do so. All are either a poem or short story having to deal with the dark corners of the mind and soul. Particularly mine. I come up with all this on my own so please read a...
