6.
Dear Dad,
Help.
We were a painting.
A painting you and her made
And it didn't matter if it was perfect
Because you both loved it.
Until you didn't.
you threw away the painting
So that you could start
On some new art
Delve into other mediums
And that left us
Alone
Now she is starting her own painting
But without another person
Her own ideas are overtaking
Perfectionism
And when we don't fit
Into what she thinks perfect is
She blames us
For making her a bad artist
Until
We break
Help.
With love,
Senseless.
YOU ARE READING
senseless.
Poetrysort of a journal and a way to clear my thoughts "in a healthy way." started it when i was fifteen so some stuff might not be the best, but enjoy.
