I hold up my brush,
dipping it in the pool of blood red paint.
I slide the brush,
turning red paint into tears of blood.
I paint what I envision
to escape, to hide, and to run away.
I color what I imagine
to fill up my empty world of black and white.
— from the time that painting and bloody horror films was a good combo for me.
YOU ARE READING
up in the clouds
Poetryshe felt trapped, or more likely she really was stuck wherever she was. writing poems was her escape out of the black hole she fell in through. whenever she wrote what she had to say and expressed what she had felt, it was almost like she was up in...
