He loved to paint
So he did it all the time
They always came out perfect
But nobody liked it
Because nobody liked the man
The man drew a flower
For his dear friend
That always ignored him
But when he took out the red paint
It splattered all over the flower
And the flower was bleeding
The man started crying
He realized the red paint
Was his own blood
Spilled by his friend
That stabbed him
Many
Many
Many times
With broken words
And the man broke
So he smeared the paint all over the flower
Drew sad things
Wrote sad things
As I said...
He was broken
Because that friend
Was himself
YOU ARE READING
I'm Starting To Think...
Poetry...that everything can come together. It can tell us what we are. It can tell us what the meaning of everything is... If you just smile, You'll see the whole world. Now just smile. {Warning: Old. Bad. Old+Bad= Very bad.}
