she was a pretty picture
a painted smile
wax dripped from her eyes
and she held her life like a paintbrush
she wrote her own music
and sung her own tunes
she was the dancer in the night
the soft pastel colors
her eyes were sharp diamonds
and her words were artfully picked
she was a vibrant author
artist, philosopher
she worried only about whether
her paint would be dry
longer than she was alive
YOU ARE READING
What's Wrong
Poetrysome of these might not make sense but trust me neither does my mind
