You like to draw
In pretty dark red,
Move the brush
Up and down,
Left and right.
Then blow the paint away
As it drips,
Creating pretty paintings.
Sometimes your own paintings
Make you cry,
They are so emotional.
And when you show the others
No one understands.
Like in Rapunzel
They take your brush away.
They don't realize.
That your brush has your soul,
And your paintings are your
Thoughts and emotions.
Because where you see a brush,
They see a knife,
Where you see a canvas
They see skin,
Where you see paint,
They see blood,
What you find pretty
They find horrid.
Where you see paintings.
They see nothing but cuts.
YOU ARE READING
Nightmare
PoetryIt's not what it seems it is. Your eyes can lie, a nightmare is everywhere. To anyone who knows me in real life: Yes, I am depressed, yes, I self-harm. But I write this for myself more than for anyone else, if you do decide to read this, I want you...
