Where did the little artist go
The one who drew penciled portraits
And messy charcoal birds
The girl with potential
Painting burning sunsets on stretched canvas
Her story is so sad, pathetic almost
She packed away her pencils for a scale
She threw out her charcoal and washed the soot from her hands
She traded her paintbrushes for blades
Now she can paint, but only with tears and blood
Her art only exists to cause her pain
Desperately, she tries to put away her paints
But she simply can't live without art, so every time she tries the scales come out
One terror traded for another
Music blasts in her ears
Her body moves
Twirling and swirling and whooshing about
Until all noise turns into a dull ringing
When she's done moving, her paintbrushes come out
Many thin strokes
Like Monet
Up close and alone, they don't look like much
But together, you see the whole picture
The pain
The blood
The shedded tears
The will to die
The several tries
That's what happened to the little artist
The girl with potential
Who painted burning skies
YOU ARE READING
Empty Thoughts
RandomJust an odd collection of thoughts in my brain that sometimes come spilling out of my mind
