I sit upon an easel
My heart a blank canvas
The days go by
As do the chances
Where is my artist
Who holds the brush
I'm falling apart
Without his painting touch
Then an artist arrives
His brush loaded with paint
But his brushstrokes are rough
And I feel like a mistake
His brushstrokes are slashes
Of black, blue and crimson
I'm left a bleeding portrait
A book still unwritten
No more artists come by
As they assume I'm complete
But I'm merely ruined artwork
A failed masterpiece.
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Mellifluous Manuscripts | ✎
PoetryHighest: #943 in Poetry » Aesthetic poetry that makes you think. A collection of sad and depressing thoughts. » I'm drowning in this misery, not strong enough to row » I'm merely ruined artwork; a failed masterpiece » Every burden needs a bearer » ...
