I held the knife.
I had all the power.
I saw the blood pour.
I watched what I did to you.
And yet I didn't stop.
I continued to carve into you.
I damaged your beautiful skin.
I tainted the white of you.
With the evil red of me.
It was just art.
The knife as the brush.
The blood as the paint.
Your skin as my canvas.
But yet I didn't stop.
I saw your face.
Pain etched onto it.
The clenched fists.
Trying to grasp at something.
But I continued.
Determined to draw.
To create my terrible,
horrific art.
Intention of creating beauty.
On something already so beautiful.
Reality of destroying you.
When you're so broken already.
YOU ARE READING
The Darkness Within
PoetryPoems about how I'm feeling. If you don't like what I write don't read it, I'm not forcing you to. I'm sorry if anyone cries.
