Her words became abstract like the people she painted.
No one could make left or right of the bold and blackened lines.
But she knows what they meant,
And that was all that mattered.
She put her everything into those portraits:
Blood, sweat, tears...
Hopes, loves, and losses.
Painting a little too much love in his tempting smirk,
And a little too much life in her distant eyes.
But everyone knew her life resembled more that of the her first grey sunset:
Colorless and dull- like how the world felt when he left with the best pieces of her.
And her friends knew he wasn't coming back (before she could care to admit),
when her poetry had become repetitive, bland, and revolved around him.
But even as she became to realize it herself, there was not much she could do.
Artists are chained to their minds, after all.
The pen in her hand still wanted to spill deep, colored, inks in his name.
The paintbrush only ever found itself dipped into his favorite colored paints.
The camera only photographed the highlights of his remnants before he became ghost.
The memory of him demanded to be remembered.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
Poetry"I know that sometimes for people, I feel like too much; But let me kiss away the phantom pain that the scars remind you of, Let me kiss the burns on your hands, From when you touched the burning fire within my soul. Let me show you that yes, I am...
