i tried to paint one day,
but i had no money
to buy paint and brushes
and who ever thought i could afford
an actual easel and canvas?
so my fists became paintbrushes
and my blood became the oil.
i drew on the walls of my room,
darkened by the night,
hitting it violently until i could see
the blues of my bruises and
the reds of my tainted blood and
the blacks of my soul that inked out.
and there i painted the last thing
i ever remember being made of color
against my world of black and white.
you would always be in my blood.
YOU ARE READING
tragedy
Poetry[a collection of poetry] tragedy (n.) 1) an event causing great suffering, destruction, and distress, such as a serious accident, crime, or natural catastrophe. 2) dealing with a serious or somber theme, typically that of a great person desti...
