***
The paintbrush washed her skin,
the red,
displayed,
the anger,
within.
The black,
the depths,
her soul,
feeling grim.
The blue,
reflecting,
the emotion,
the pain,
the vulnerability,
with his every notion.
The purple,
obtaining,
the meaning,
the sadness,
the depression,
the deprivation,
of feeling,
of oxygen.
He stole,
the breath,
from her lungs,
her throat,
her body.
Until she was suffocating,
shaking,
her whole body quaking,
from loss.
He could never love her,
no matter how hard he tried.
His heart was with another,
another flame that had died.
She finally discerned,
that during all this time,
he had lied.
So,
she made the mistake,
of saying so,
and he, with his care fake,
left.
He was monstrous.
And nothing could fill the new feeling inside of her,
the loss.
***
Soooo, I have got a lot more poems that I would love to post-but some are a bit disturbing or full of gore, and I do not know what people expect from me, or of whom is alright with that. Opinions would be nice.
***
11/14/16
YOU ARE READING
The Scars On Our Skin
PoetryCrap poems by a crappier person. They paint a pretty picture, but the story has a twist; the paintbrush is a razor, and the canvas is their wrist. Highest Rank; #48 in Poetry Graphics by; @deeplyenchanted
